€     G 


BROKEN 
ROSAKV 


BX 
E.DWARD 

PEPLE 


A  BROKEN  ROSARY 


She  struck  a  few  swift  chord:, 
and  sang  of  the  little  Picador 
(SeepagejS] 


A 

BROKEN 
ROSARY 


BY 


EDWARD    PEPLE 


Illustrated  by  Scotson  Clark 


JOHN  LANE  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON  MCMIV 


COPYRIGHT  BY  EDWARD  H.  PEPLE,  1901 
COPYRIGHT  BY  JOHN  LAMB,  1904 


First  Edition,  March,  1904 
Second  Edition,  March,  1904 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


She  struck  a  few  swift  chords,  and  sang  of 
the  little  Picador  (see  page  $8)     -    Frontispiece 


FACING  PAGE 


With  a  vicious  jerk  she  snapped  the  fragile 
string  -         -         -         -         -         -         -172 

He  loosened  the  collar  of  his  robe,  reveal- 
ing the  doublet  of  a  cavalier  beneath         -  222 

"  Choose  ! " 3°8 


2137805 


A  BROKEN   ROSARY 


CHAPTER    I 

ALONG  the  marble  colonnade  of  the  Gran 
Duca's  palace,  clad  in  the  picturesque  attire  of 
royal  France — the  France  of  Louis  XV. — 
walked  a  young  cavalier,  leading  by  the  arm  a 
still  younger  companion  whose  face  was  flushed 
and  angry,  whose  reluctant  and  uncertain  steps 
told  all  too  plainly  of  a  surfeit  of  wine,  while  his 
voice  rose  cross  and  petulant  as  that  of  a  pam- 
pered child. 

"  Why  do  you  drag  me  away  when  the  night 
is  not  half  over?  You  are  not  my  master! " 

"  No,  Leon,"  the  other  answered  soothingly, 
"  not  master,  but  a  friend  who  loves  you."  Then 
pointing  to  the  palace,  from  whence  a  thousand 
lights  sent  out  a  warm,  seductive  glow,  and  the 
faint,  low  throb  of  music  followed  them  to  the 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

iron  gateway  of  the  garden,  he  continued  gently: 
"  It  is  hot  and  close  in  there,  and  already  you 
have  drunk  a  deal  more  wine  than  is  good  for 
you.  Come — the  night  is  beautiful — I  want  you 
to  walk  with  me." 

"Walk!"  his  companion  growled.  "In  the 
devil's  name,  why  leave  a  winning  game  to 
walk?" 

"  The  air  is  better  for  your  blood  than  dice 
and  drink." 

"  Fabien,  you're  a  fool ! " 

Leon  jerked  his  sleeve  from  the  other's  grasp 
and  faced  him  angrily ;  his  utterance  was  thick 
and  stumbling ;  his  great  grey  eyes  were  blaz- 
ing. 

"  And  what  right  of  yours,"  he  cried,  "  if  I 
drain  a  cask?  Am  I  a  babe  in  arms  who  needs 
a  whining,  white-faced  nurse  forever  dawdling 
at  my  heels  to  tell  me  when  I've  had  enough, 
and  wipe  my  lips  with  the  corner  of  an  apron  ? 
Leave  me  in  peace !  You  sicken  me  with  your 
endless  babbling  of  friendship.  Peste !  Have 
done  with  it ! " 

Fabien  answered  nothing,  and  the  moonlight 
falling  on  his  pale,  calm  face  showed  only  pity 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

for  the  drunken  boy  who  heaped  unmerited 
abuse  upon  him ;  he  sighed  and  drew  his  velvet 
cloak  about  his  shoulders,  turned  on  his  heel 
and  strode  away,  while  Leon  watched  him  in 
sullen  silence  till  a  flush  of  shame  crept  slowly 
to  his  beardless  cheek.  And  this  was  his  friend ! 
A  friend  from  babyhood  till  now — brave,  gener- 
ous, tender  as  a  mother,  when  his  own  unthink- 
ing follies  brought  sorrow  and  remorse.  Fa- 
bien!  Dearer  than  a  brother,  older,  cooler, 
stronger,  ever  ready  to  forgive  an  injury,  and 
now — thrust  from  him  in  a  burst  of  childish 
anger. 

For  a  moment  more  the  boy  stood  listening ; 
the  retreating  footsteps  died  away,  and  two  hot 
tears  rolled  slowly  down  and  clung  to  his  quiv- 
ering chin.  He  called,  but  no  answer  came. 
He  paused,  glanced  backward  at  the  palace 
lights  and  then  ran,  staggering,  to  overtake  his 
friend  and  beg  forgiveness. 

And  Fabien  listened  in  indulgence  to  his  fal- 
tering words  of  penitence,  pressed  his  shoulder 
tenderly,  and,  linking  an  arm  through  his,  led 
him  away  from  the  wine  and  gaming  tables 
along  the  cool,  white  road  past  terraced  gar- 

3 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

dens,  where  stately  Italian  villas  reposed  in  the 
leafy  shadows,  under  the  ruined  walls  of  a  once 
proud  castle,  now  crumbling  into  dust,  till  at 
length  they  reached  the  hilltop  which  over- 
looked the  bay.  Here  at  their  feet  lay  a  dusky 
line  of  wharves  and  quays, — a  wilderness  of  rest- 
less ships  with  fretting  anchor  chains  and  creak- 
ing cordage ;  there  to  the  right,  within  the  horse- 
shoe's bend,  slept  Naples  with  her  coverlet  cast 
aside  to  catch  the  cooling  breezes  from  the  sea, 
and  beyond  the  bay  itself  stretched  out  like  a 
rumpled  bed  of  silver,  from  which  the  summer 
moon  had  risen  in  the  night.  Away  to  the  left 
old  Mount  Vesuvius  hunched  his  rugged  shoul- 
der across  the  sky,  his  snoring  head  encircled 
by  a  wreath  of  oozing  smoke,  from  whose  coils 
his  yellow  fangs  of  flame  showed  fitfully  and 
sank  again  to  rest.  From  the  hill's  crest,  like  a 
solitary  sentinel,  the  tiny  chapel  of  Sainte  Marie 
looked  down  on  the  sleeping  city,  and  beside  it, 
where  the  moonlight  fell,  stood  a  cracked  stone 
bench  half  covered  with  creeping  vines. 

Thither  Fabien  led  his  friend,  thinking  the 
breeze  might  clear  his  brain  of  the  fumes  of 
drink  and  cool  the  blood  which  ran  too  riotously 

4 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


in  his  veins;  but  the  sloping  approach  was 
strewn  with  stones,  and  Leon,  still  unsteady  on 
his  feet,  tripped  and  lurched  forward,  while  his 
rapier,  catching  between  his  knees,  "threw  him 
heavily  to  the  ground.  Fabien  sprang  to  aid  him, 
but  Leon  pushed  him  angrily  aside  and  stumbled 
to  his  feet  in  a  fury  at  his  mishap ;  then,  seeking 
some  object  on  which  to  vent  his  spleen,  forgot 
repentance,  and  again  assailed  his  friend  as  the 
cause  of  his  luckless  fall. 

"  A  fine  place  this,"  he  grumbled,  "  to  bring  a 
gentleman  and  trip  him  on  the  stones — and — 
and  to  laugh  at  his  misfortune !  Mon  Dieu ! 
why  could  you  not  have  left  me  to  my  game  ? " 

"  But,  my  boy,"  his  companion  pleaded,  "  I 
did  not  laugh  at  you,  and,  indeed,  I  had  no 
thought  but  sorrow  for  your  hurt.  Come,  rest 
for  a  moment  on  the  bench  while  I  brush  your 
cloak." 

"  May  the  fiends  devour  your  bench  .  .  .  and 
you !  I  want  none  of  either ! " 

"  But  only  a  moment,  Leon.  .  .  .  Come,  I  beg 
you." 

"  Aye,  you're  always  begging,"  retorted  Leon 
with  an  ugly  sneer,  "begging  from  dawn 

5 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

to  midnight.  What  would  you  have,  my  ring 
— my  purse?"  He  flipped  a  coin  from  his 
thumb,  and  laughed.  "Well  .  .  .  what  more?" 

Fabien  bit  his  lip  and  gazed  in  silence  out 
across  the  bay,  then,  after  a  pause,  said  sadly : 
"  L£on  ...  I  want  your  love — naught  else,  be- 
lieve me." 

And  Le*on,  too  drunk  to  understand  the  fine 
restraint  and  unselfishness  of  his  friend's  devo- 
tion, laughed  shrilly  at  the  womanish  speech,  and 
offered  to  buy  him  a  petticoat  and  a  box  of 
rouge;  but  finding  at  length  that  his  taunts 
were  met  with  a  bridled  tongue,  he  turned  on 
his  heel  with  a  mocking  shrug  and  swung  into 
the  road  which  led  to  the  palace  a  mile  or  more 
away. 

Fabien  rose  from  the  bench  and  followed. 
"  Leon,"  he  called,  "  whither  will  you  go  ? 
Surely  not  back  to  your  silly  game?  The  dice 
are  loaded." 

Leon  wheeled  upon  him  in  a  rage.  "And 
what  is  it  to  you? "  he  cried.  "  Mind  your  own 
affairs !  Leave  me  and  mine  in  peace ! " 

"  But,  my  boy,"  urged  Fabien  tenderly,  striv- 
ing to  take  his  arm  once  more,  "  'tis  folly  to  play 

6 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


where  you're  sure  to  lose.  Come,  be  advised  by 
an  older  head." 

Leon  struck  fiercely  at  Fabien's  detaining 
hand,  and  answered,  with  a  curse :  "  A  pest  on 
you  and  your  hateful  preaching !  The  loss  of 
my  last  cracked  sou  would  be  a  paltry  price  for 
the  riddance  of  your  company ! "  Then  added, 
with  another  tipsy  oath,  "And  besides,  you 
idiot,  I  was  winning — three  times  running." 

"  Aye,"  answered  Fabien  quietly,  "  the  luck  of 
a  fool  may  win  three  times  for  him,  but  scarcely 
a  fourth,  in  play  with  a  trickster  whose  wine  is 
drugged.  Diable  !  Leon,  you  are  far  too  drunk 
to  count  the  dots  upon  your  dice." 

"You  lie!" 

A  hot  flush  swept  across  Fabien's  cheek  and 
left  it  deathly  white;  his  thin  hand  twitched 
as  it  crept  toward  his  rapier  hilt,  paused,  and 
fell  limply  to  his  side. 

"  Go,  Leon,"  he  said  in  sadness,  "  go  If  you 
will.  ...  I  trouble  you  no  longer." 

But  L£on,  now  lashed  to  unreasoning  rage, 
taunted  him  with  cowardice  in  swallowing  the 
lie,  flung  his  glove  into  his  friend's  pale  face,  and 
drew  his  rapier.  The  older  man,  with  iron  will, 

7 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


controlled  his  anger  for  the  sake  of  the  boy  he 
loved,  and  because  of  the  fiery  wine  which  the 
crafty  duca  had  administered  in  the  hope  of 
plucking  a  golden  pheasant  to  the  bone.  Fabien 
had  seen  the  trap,  and  led  his  friend  away,  to 
the  ill-disguised  annoyance  of  both  the  "trickster 
and  his  dupe,  for  their  host  had  scowled  and 
chewed  a  disappointed  oath,  while  Leon  left  the 
table  grudgingly ;  and  now,  as  the  drug  burned 
fiercely  in  his  veins,  his  grosser  passions  bub- 
bled to  the  surface,  and  he  stood  before  his  gen- 
tlest friend  with  an  eager,  threatening  sword. 
Poor  boy,  thought  Fabien,  he  knows  not  \vhat 
he  does,  and  turns  his  hand  against  me  in  the 
sickness  of  his  mind. 

"  Leon,"  he  asked,  "  what  madness  is  this 
which  has  come  upon  you  ?  Would  you  prove 
me  indeed  a  coward  in  causing  me  to  wound  a 
wine-crazed  child?  Put  up  your  rapier  and 
have  done  with  this  causeless  quarrel.  I  have 
no  part  in  it,  and  sought  only  to  fish  you  from 
the  meshes  of  a  net.  There,  take  my  hand  and 
make  an  end  of  folly  and  unreason." 

For  answer  Leon  struck  him  heavily  upon 

the  mouth  with  his  hard-clenched  fist.    Fabien 

8 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


reeled  and  fell,  and  when  he  rose  a  stream  of 
blood  was  flowing  from  his  lip  and  slowly  drib- 
bled down  on  his  satin  doublet. 

"Follow!" 

Without  another  word  he  led  the  way  behind 
the  chapel  where  the  moonlight  fell  upon  a 
patch  of  soft,  smooth  sward.  He  was  far  the 
better  swordsman,  with  longer  reach  and  firmer 
wrist,  a  practised  blade  which  answered  to  a 
clear,  cool  brain;  opposed  to  him,  a  beardless 
youth,  transformed  by  poisoned  drink  into  a 
madman,  whose  fury  rendered  him  incapable 
even  of  self-defence. 

Fabien  sighed  as  he  cast  his  cloak  behind 
him  on  the  turf,  and  ere  he  drew  his  sword  he 
sought  once  more  by  gentle  reasoning  to  stay 
his  companion's  rage;  but  Leon  was  in  no 
mood  for  reason ;  the  cold  voice  only  maddened 
him,  and  he  struck  without  warning  at  his 
friend's  unguarded  breast.  Fabien  leaped  aside 
and  caught  the  lunging  point  upon  his  arm ;  it 
slid  along  its  way,  ripping  the  satin  sleeve  from 
wrist  to  shoulder. 

"A  foul  thrust,  Leon,"  he  murmured  re- 
proachfully, and  stood  on  guard.  'Twill 

9 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 


V°Vry  \M^/ 

bring  you  shame  when  you  remember  it  to- 
morrow." 


morrow. 

Leon  heeded  nothing.  With  a  snarl  of  rage 
he  sprang  at  his  antagonist,  the  once-loved 
Fabien  seeming  to  his  disordered  brain  but  a 
thing  to  kill.  Again  and  again  he  flung  his 
supple  body  forward,  lunging  at  throat  and 
chest  in  deadly  hate;  and  Fabien,  with  ever- 
watchful  eye  and  shifting  foot,  parried  each 
vicious  thrust,  and  in  return  gave  none;  the 
while  his  calm '  voice  rose  above  the  slithering 
rasp  of  steel,  pleading  with  a  madman's  lust  for 
blood,  calling,  soothing,  till  his  words  were 
drowned  in  the  jarring  crash  of  rapier  hilts  tight 
locked  in  uplifted  hands. 

Once  more  they  swung  apart ;  once  more  the 
boy  plunged  fiercely  at  his  foe,  and  then  of  a 
sudden  his  blade  was  twisted  from  his  grasp, 
spun  in  the  moonlight  like  a  silver  wheel  and 
stuck,  quivering,  in  the  earth.  Fabien  laughed. 

With  the  cry  of  a  wounded  beast,  Leon 
stooped  and  seized  his  rapier,  attacking  with  an 
open  guard;  no  longer  guided  by  the  duel's 
code,  but  in  blind  fury  lashing  out  before  him, 

as  though  he  held  a  whip,  till  Fabien,  fending 

10 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

off  the  storm  of  blows,  could  scarce  prevent  his 
foe  from  rushing  on  his  point. 

"In  God's  name,  Leon,  have  a  care!"  he 
cried,  and  retreating  swiftly,  caught  his  heel  in 
the  throat-strap  of  his  discarded  cloak,  tripped, 
and  fell  prone  upon  his  back.  A  thin,  keen 
rapier  licked  out,  met  flesh,  and  pinned  him  to 
the  earth. 

For  one  long  moment  Leon  stood,  his  fingers 
clutched  in  his  dripping  locks,  staring  in  horror 
at  the  stricken  thing  that  quivered  at  his  feet ; 
and  then,  with  a  cry  of  half  unhuman  agony, 
fell  sobbing  beside  his  friend.  The  cry  was 
taken  up  and  flung  from  stone  to  stone,  and 
echoed  "  Fabien !  Fabien ! "  till  it  sank  to  a 
stifled  whisper  and  was  lost  in  the  lapping  sea. 

With  a  rush  of  blinding  tears  the  sobered  boy 
poured  forth  a  torrent  of  endearments  where  a 
moment  since  fell  curses  and  abuse.  With  lips 
to  cheek  and  brow  he  babbled  incoherently  a 
pitiless  storm  of  self-denunciation,  a  soul-racked 
prayer  launched  wildly  at  unheeding  heaven, 
a  passionate  appeal  that  a  dying  man  might 
live. 

'  Forgive !    Forgive ! "  he  moaned.   "  Ah.  holy 
ii 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 


God,  I  know  not  what  I  did !  Fabien,  forgive ! 
Forgive ! " 

Fabien  smiled  and  feebly  pressed  his  hand ; 
the  black  blood  gushed  from  his  speechless  lips ; 
he  shivered  and  was  still. 

Long  Leon  sat,  as  a  mother  might  cling  to 
the  body  of  her  babe,  rocking  dumbly  to  and 
fro,  the  limp  head  pillowed  on  his  breast  till  his 
vest  was  stained  with  a  crimson  smudge.  At 
length  he  rose,  and  lifting  the  burden  in  his 
arms,  staggered  beneath  its  weight  toward  the 
chapel.  The  oaken  door  swung  inward  to  a 
pressure  of  his  foot;  a  draught  of  chilling  air 
puffed  out  in  his  fevered  face,  and  a  frightened 
bat  swirled  by,  brushing  his  cheek  with  a 
clammy  wing.  With  laboured  breath  he  groped 
his  way  along  the  ghostly  aisles,  tottering  on  to 
the  chancel  rail,  where  the  unlit  candles  slit  the 
murky  gloom,  and  the  Christ  hung  limp  and 
pallid  from  his  cross.  At  the  altar's  foot  he  laid 
his  burden  down,  then  fled — like  a  thing  ac- 
cursed— he  knew  not  whither. 

The  grating  winches  dragged  up  an  anchor 
chain ;  the  clumsy  hull  swung  round  in  an  ebb- 

12 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

ing  tide,  and  the  fruit  ship  Santa  Baba,  bound 
with  her  cargo  for  Le  Harve,  slid  silently  out 
to  sea. 

The  sailors  looked  askance  at  a  huddled 
figure  lying  on  the  deck,  whose  fine,  patrician 
face  was  hidden  in  his  outstretched  arms,  whose 
once  rich  garments,  now  soiled  and  disarranged, 
showed  ugly  stains,  which  caused  the  watch  to 
cross  himself  and  mumble  a  half-forgotten 
prayer.  But  the  grim-faced  captain  lolling  at 
the  helm  gazed  calmly  across  his  bows  and 
whistled  an  idle  tune,  for  gold  was  rare  and 
throats  were  cheap  in  Naples,  and  if  the  S ignore 
paid  a  double  fare  in  good  and  lawful  coin,  the 
Signore  might  seek  the  devil  in  the  way  which 
pleased  him  best.  Basta  !  It  was  no  affair  of 
his! 

The  huddled  figure  tossed  in  sleepless  agony 
until  the  moon  went  down.  A  cold  wind  rose 
and  flung  gaunt,  white-lipped  waves  against 
the  vessel's  side,  each  an  accusing,  clamorous 
tongue  that  cried  out  "  Fabien !  Fabien ! "  and 
plunged  away  into  the  darkness.  The  main- 
mast, with  its  heavy  spar,  towered  upwards  in 
the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  cross  whence 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


the  phantom  of  a  colossal  Christ  looked  down 
reproachfully,  and  in  the  vessel's  wake  old 
Mount  Vesuvius  sank  behind  the  curving  sea, 
his  flaring  crest  a  crimson  stain  against  the 
sky. 


CHAPTER   II 

Vive  le  Roi  /  The  crowd  still  shouted,  although 
the  king  had  already  passed  by,  and  the  last  of 
his  escort  was  disappearing  round  the  corner; 
but  their  monarch  had  smiled  most  genially 
upon  them,  so  now  they  stood  about  in  noisy 
knots,  discussing  the  subject  of  the  king's  re- 
turn from  Rouen.  True,  there  was  nothing  of 
special  moment  in  this  event,  yet  Louis  passed 
not  every  day,  and  a  train  of  clattering  men  at 
arms  in  glittering  harness  and  polished  helms 
was  ample  cause  to  bring  the  people  flocking 
from  their  doors,  even  without  the  presence  of 
the  royal  leader. 

Louis  had  sat  upon  his  chestnut  stallion  that 
plunged  and  curveted  beneath  his  master's  rein, 
while  at  his  side  rode  a  favorite  courtier,  Gas- 
ton  Due  de  la  Fere,  a  new-made  husband  with 
mended  morals  and  a  splendid  velvet  cloak,  who 
scattered  silver  pennies  from  a  purse  which, 
rumor  said,  was  inexhaustible;  so  the  rabble 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


shouted  joyously  and  forgot  that  Louis'  fist  was 
hidden  in  his  glove. 

Tailors  were  there  who  dissertated  wisely  on 
the  cost  and  fit  of  the  riders'  hose  and  doublets, 
artisans  and  smiths  still  reeking  from  the  forge, 
cobblers  and  dusty  bakers,  a  swarm  of  wriggling, 
grime-stained  children  tangled  in  strangers'  legs 
and  bawling  lustily ;  shrill-tongued  mothers  who 
gossiped  among  the  men  or  sought  in  frantic 
unavail  for  their  offspring  lost  in  the  shifting 
crowd.  Beggars  of  every  unwashed  hue  whined 
pleadingly  for  sous,  or  deftly  explored  un- 
guarded pockets  to  spare  their  owner's  time  in 
making  change.  Cripples  were  much  in  evi- 
dence, their  maimed  and  bandaged  limbs  seem- 
ing marvelously  restored  to  health  and  vigour 
in  the  scramble  for  scattered  coins.  And  dogs 
— dogs  that  fought  among  themselves  in  riotous 
delight — on  any  pretext — claiming  the  interest 
and  attention  of  the  people  next  to  the  king 
himself. 

Before  the  doorway  of  the  jeweller  stood  the 
blazoned  carriage  of  the  Marquis  Dubris,  sur- 
rounded by  a  gaping  throng  of  idlers  who  waited 

for  a    glimpse  of  the  lordly  owner;  some  in 

16 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

simple  curiosity,  others  to  fling  a  jest  or 
two  of  spiced  but  unsavoury  flavour,  for  the 
marquis  was  not  a  favourite  with  the  poor  of 
Paris. 

Directly  across  the  way  stood  the  shop  of 
Monsieur  Dreux,  a  maker  of  artistic  gowns,  who 
boasted  that  his  customers  numbered  the  richest 
Parisian  belles,  and  even  a  haughty  dame  or  two 
from  the  court  itself.  From  an  iron  balcony  on 
the  building's  upper  story  a  handsome  woman 
with  splendid  eyes,  young,  but  no  ingenue, 
looked  boldly  out  on  the  scene  below;  she 
waited  in  impatience  for  her  carriage  to  appear, 
and  if  one  might  judge  by  the  grim  compres- 
sion of  her  lips,  the  driver  would  rue  his  tardi- 
ness and  hold  the  memory  long.  Many  a  gaze 
was  lifted  to  the  balcony,  and  many  a  whisper 
sank  into  too  willing  ears. 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  a  soldier  in  a  dirty 
leather  coat  and  muddy  boots,  as  he  craned  his 
neck  for  a  better  view.  "  del !  the  face  and 
figure  of  an  angel  i " 

A  painted  girl  beside  him  tittered  in  reply: 
"An  angel,  yes,  but  her  wings  are  like  your 

boots,  mon  ami;  'twill  take  a  mighty  rubbing 
2  17 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

to  make  them  clean  again.  God  save  you,  sir, 
she  is  Madame  le  Corbeau ! " 

A  barber,  standing  at  the  soldier's  elbow, 
laughed,  then  vastly  pleased  to  find  an  easy 
auditor,  poured  forth  a  volley  of  unsought  in- 
formation, the  while  his  thumb  and  finger 
worked  unconsciously,  as  though  his  shears 
were  snipping  at  his  listener's  straggling  locks : 

"  Ah,  sir,  you  well  may  stare  at  Madame  le 
Corbeau — the  most  beautiful  of  women.  Paris 
holds  none  else  to  equal  her.  What !  You  have 
never  heard  of  her?  Morbleu !  my  friend, 
surely  you're  a  stranger  in  the  city.  Madame  le 
Corbeau?  Every  one  knows  Madame  le  Cor- 
beau— and  best  of  all — the  devil.  Why,  sir,  she 
was  once  the  mistress  of  the  Due  de  la  Fere — he 
who  passed  just  now  on  the  king's  left  hand- 
but  they  say  she  spent  his  gold  so  fast  that  the 
wary  due  took  fright,  departing  with  such  sud- 
denness as  to  leave  his  feathered  hat  behind. 
How  do  I  know  these  things?  Sir,  I  am  hon- 
oured by  the  confidence  of  many  courtly  gentle- 
men who  chat  agreeably  while  I  dress  their  hair, 
and — your  pardon,  sir — I  may  say  without  of- 
fence that  your  own  needs  trimming  sadly.  My 

18 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

shop  is  just  round  the  corner;  you  cannot  miss 
it  if  you  try.  But  speaking  of  the  due — did 
you  note  his  face  when  he  spied  Miladi  on  the 
balcony  ?  No  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  his  cheek  flushed 
red  as  his  crimson  sash,  and  he  straightway 
scattered  pennies  among  the  beggars  to  cover 
his  confusion.  But,  ah,  the  lady!  Ha!  No 
boggling  there!  She  looked  straight  at  him 
with  half-closed  eyes,  and  smiled  disdainfully. 
La,  sir,  some  say  the  story  has  another  side,  but 
what  may  one  pick  for  the  wagging  of  such  idle 
tongues  ?  For  my  part- 
Here  the  mouth  of  the  little  man  was  stopped 
abruptly  by  a  sudden  excited  movement  in  the 
crowd.  Across  the  street  from  the  jeweller's 
doorway  stepped  the  Marquis  Dubris,  a  short, 
coarse  man  with  a  bloated  countenance,  thick 
overhanging  brows  and  a  mouth  of  cruel  inso- 
lence. The  idlers  fell  back  in  precipitance  to 
give  him  passage  to  his  carriage,  when  Bobo,  a 
hunchback  beggar,  jostled  by  the  press,  sought 
safety  in  a  hobbling  flight  toward  the  curb. 
Alas  for  poor  Bobo's  haste!  His  wooden 
crutches  slid  on  the  polished  stones,  and  the 
beggar,  to  save  a  painful  fall,  clutched  wildly  at 

19 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 


the  skirt  of  the  marquis's  satin  coat.  The  mar- 
quis, with  a  brutal  oath,  lifted  his  cane  and 
struck — struck  viciously,  and  Bobo  fell,  his 
cheek  laid  bare  as  by  a  sabre  cut ;  and,  rolling 
on  his  face,  held  up  one  feeble  arm  to  shield  his 
defenceless  head.  Once  more  the  cane  hissed 
through  the  air  and  caught  the  hunchback 
sharply  on  his  curving  spine.  Bobo  screamed 
out  in  agony,  sobbed,  and  was  still,  while  from 
the  motley  throng  of  watchers  an  angry  growl 
broke  forth,  rose  and  fell  in  a  storm  of  hoots 
and  curses.  They  hissed  and  groaned,  but  with 
a  rabble's  cowardice  remained  inactive,  venting 
their  rage  in  threatening  cries  and  execrations. 
The  marquis,  hemmed  in  on  every  side  and 
spurred  to  boiling  wrath,  lifted  his  heavy  stick 
again,  when  a  firm  white  hand  shot  out,  closed 
on  the  cane,  and  wrenched  it  from  his  grasp.  A 
roar  of  joy  burst  out  from  a  hundred  throats ; 
the  marquis  spun  upon  his  heel  and  faced  a  priest 
—a  tall,  pale  priest,  whose  great  grey  eyes  looked 
calmly  into  his  own  and  waited.  For  a  moment 
taken  at  a  disadvantage,  the  noble  fumed  and 
spluttered  helplessly,  whereat  a  great  laugh  went 

up  and  stung  him  like  a  banderillero's  dart  in 

20 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

the  flesh  of  a  baited  bull.  His  face  turned 
ghastly  pale,  then  livid  in  his  passion ;  a  foul 
oath  fell  from  his  purple  lips,  and  his  sword 
flashed  out,  its'  point  presented  at  the  broad, 
deep  chest  of  the  priest  who  barred  his.  path. 

"  Out  of  my  way,"  screamed  the  maddened 
marquis,  "  or  I'll  truss  you  like  a  fowl ! " 

"  Peace ! "  said  the  priest.  "  Put  up  your 
sword." 

The  voice  was  low  and  passionless,  unstirred 
by  any  touch  of  anger  or  of  fear,  but  firm,  un- 
wavering as  the  tone  of  a  mother  to  her  erring 
child,  while  Dubris  glared  at  him  with  a  look  of 
rancorous  hate,  his  weak  chin  trembling  in  im- 
potent fury. 

"  Stand  back ! "  he  shouted. 

"  No." 

'  Then  die ! "  the  marquis  shrieked,  and 
stepped  backward  for  his  thrust. 

Through  the  huddled  rabble  a  gasp  of  horror 
surged,  and  sank  into  breathless  silence.  No 
hand  was  raised  to  save  the  father's  blood ;  no 
man  to  fling  himself  between  that  splinter  of 
gleaming  steel  and  the  priest  who  staked  his  life 

for  a  hunchbacked  beggar  moaning  at  his  feet; 

21 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 


and  so  they  waited  in  stupid  fascination  while 
one  might  count  a  score,  watching  the  figures 
in  the  centre  of  their  human  ring.  The  noble- 
man, a  painted  peacock,  in  lace  and  brocaded 
satin,  his  vulgar  face  distorted  and  inflamed  with 
fury,  his  thick,  coarse  figure  crouched  to  back 
his  lunge;  the  priest,  calm,  motionless,  un- 
moved, in  the  simple  garments  of  his  holy  call- 
ing ;  his  [spotless  white  serge  cassock  fell  from 
throat  to  sandal,  while  over  it  a  wide,  black 
mantle  hung,  its  loose  end  flung  like  a  toga's 
fold  across  his  shoulder.  The  sinewy  arm, 
which  might  have  warded  off  the  threatened 
stroke,  hung  passive  at  his  side,  but  the  cold 
grey  eyes,  which  looked  unflinchingly  from 
their  pallid  patrician  frame,  held  the  marquis 
chained  as  a  man  may  hold  a  beast. 

Who  can  say  what  passed  through  the  mar- 
quis's mind  in  that  one  hovering  instant  of  in- 
action, when  passion  warred  with  mental  cow- 
ardice—  when  pride  must  strike  or  stoop? 
Whether  his  stagnant  soul  shrank  pitifully  in 
conscious  awe  of  the  holy  robe  which  clothed  an 
unarmed  antagonist — whether  the  very  evil  in 

him  cowered,  abashed,  before  that  passive  mien 

22 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


of  power  and  purity,  or  if  in  the  features  of  the 
man  himself,  thin,  delicate,  refined,  he  read  the 
name  of  master — the  master  who  scorned  him 
for  what  he  was — who  looked  beneath  his  strut- 
ting feathers  and  saw  him  in  his  nakedness,  a 
thing  ashamed. 

The  sword-hand  shook;  the  glittering  point 
which  menaced  the  priest's  breast  wavered,  then, 
like  the  marquis's  shifting  eyes,  dropped  slowly 
to  the  earth. 

Stooping,  the  priest  raised  Bobo  from  the 
ground  and  held  the  half  unconscious  beggar  in 
his  arms,  unmindful  of  the  trickling  ooze  which 
dyed  his  vestments  with  a  crimson  smudge; 
then  turning  to  Dubris,  he  spoke  scarce  audibly, 
his  low,  rich  voice  for  the  first  time  trembling 
in  its  sorrowful  intensity: 

"  Go  you  in  peace.  ...  I  judge  you  not  .  .  . 
but  remember,  sir,  that  where  you  sow  . .  .  there 
also  shall  you  reap  .  .  .  and  when,  in  passion, 
you  seek  a  fellow-creature's  blood  .  .  .  may  God 
forgive  you — you  know  not  what  you  do ! " 

The  marquis  hung  his  head,  and  without  a 
word,  turned  round  and  shuffled  toward  his 
carriage.  A  snarling  murmur  rose ;  hard  hands 

23 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


stretched  out  to  drag  him  in  the  dust,  and 
vengeful  curses  bubbled  to  bearded  lips ;  but  the 
father  raised  his  hand,  and  a  sudden  hush  fell 
on  the  rabble,  while  the  nobleman,  his  naked 
sword  still  held  in  his  shaking  grasp,  crept  like 
a  sentenced  criminal  into  his  coach.  The  horses 
plunged  through  the  scattering  crowd ;  a  white, 
affrighted  face  looked  for  an  instant  from  the 
carriage  window,  and  was  gone. 

The  priest,  with  the  bleeding  beggar  in  his 
arms,  strode  silently  away,  while  a  handsome 
woman,  watching  from  a  balcony,  clutched  at 
the  iron  railing  with  her  jewelled  hands,  and 
wondered.  Her  splendid  eyes  still  followed  him 
till  his  coal-black  cowl  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
ragged  crowd  that  pressed  upon  his  heels. 


24 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  candles  in  the  salon  of  Madame  le  Cor- 
beau  burned  brightly  from  their  silver  candela- 
bra, and  beneath  them  half  a  score  of  merry, 
gay-dressed  cavaliers  were  chatting  with  as  many 
women  in  rouge  and  satin.  Some  gossiped 
laughingly,  passing  in  and  out  upon  the  balcony 
through  wide  rear  windows  reaching  to  the 
floor,  while  others  stood  beside  a  table  spread 
with  fruit  and  wine,  jesting  across  the  rims  of 
their  brimming  glasses ;  a  brilliant  picture  with 
its  changing  tints  of  silk  and  velvet,  its  flash  of 
colour,  a  glint  of  gold,  and  the  rich  appoint- 
ments of  the  room  itself — a  shade  too  pure  in 
taste  for  the  coarse-tongued  laughter  shrilling 
from  a  painted  woman's  lips. 

A  girl  with  a  reckless  face  and  a  spiteful 
mouth,  seated  before  a  harpsichord,  strummed 
noisily. 

"  Peste,  Lizette!"  cried  a  tawdry  beauty 
called  La  Rose,  "  you  set  one's  teeth  on  edge. 

25 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Come,  give  us  a  song  in  which  we  all  may  join 
• — a  merry  one — well — anything  you  please." 

"  As  you  will,"  replied  Lizette  in  a  careless 
tone,  and,  turning  to  several  gentlemen  stand- 
ing near,  said  sneeringly :  "  La  Rose  is  begging 
that  I  play  '  King  Grape,'  a  song  which  was 
written  by  her  latest  lover.  I  'm  sure  'twill  give 
her  pleasure — and  besides — she  can  air  her 
cracked  contralto.  Come,  Messieurs ;  I  believe 
you  know  the  chorus." 

La  Rose  blushed  furiously  and  turned  away, 
but  on  being  urged  by  many  laughing  gentle- 
men, was  at  last  appeased,  and  sang  in  a  deep, 
rich  voice  the  rollicking  lines  of  a  drinking  song : 

"  King  Grape  is  a  king  of  kings,  I  ween ; 
He  holds  his  court  in  a  vineyard  green, 

'Neath  the  shade  of  a  lordly  vine, 
Where  the  blood  of  the  bursting  fruit  runs  red, 
And  the  gleam  of  a  golden  sun  is  shed 

On  rivers  of  sparkling  wine. 
His  crystal  flagon  is  tossed  on  high — 
A  ruby  splash  in  a  sapphire  sky — 

And  is  borne  on  the  wind's  swift  wings, 
From  the  North  to  South,  from  the  West  to  East, 
To  prince  and  beggar,  to  sinner  and  priest, 

Who  bow  to  the  king  of  kings." 

Here  the  company  took  up  the  chorus  noisily, 

singing  it  twice  over : 

26 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Then  hail  to  the  king 

Whose  treasures  cling 
To  the  breath  of  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  the  nectar  that  drips 

To  the  eager  lips 
Of  the  thirsty  world  below." 


As  the  chorus  ended,  a  clapping  of  hands  was 
heard,  and  Raymond  Delese,  a  handsome,  boy- 
ish cavalier  in  pearl-gray  silk,  entered  and  ad- 
vanced to  the  group  of  singers. 

"  Brava  !    Brava  /"  he  cried  delightedly. 

"  Oh  ho ! "  laughed  La  Rose.  "  The  vanity  of 
man,  applauding  a  song  which  he  wrote  him- 
self!" And  the  guests  joined  heartily  in  the 
jesting  welcome  to  the  young  musician. 

"  No,  no,  dear  friends,"  he  protested  smilingly, 
"  I  deny  that  charge  at  least.  I  applauded  the 
singing  rather  than  the  song,  but  foremost  of  all 
I  clapped  for  your  leader — peerless  La  Rose. 
Ah,  little  one,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "  that 
contralto  should  be  heard  in  opera." 

La  Rose  placed  two  white  hands  behind  her 
back.  "  I  cannot  applaud  your  flattery,"  she 
lisped,  "  as  I  might  your  music,  and  especially 
when  the  varnish  of  your  compliment  is,  alas ! 

so  thin;  but  come,  I  will  reward  your  gallantry" 

27 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

— she  pinned  a  rose  upon  his  coat — "  for,  Ray- 
mond, you're  a  clever  knave  .  .  .  and  clever 
knaves  are  rare." 

Raymond  raised  the  flower  to  his  lips.  "  By 
proxy,"  he  murmured,  with  a  meaning  smile, "  till 
the  knave  may  claim  a  more  responsive  kiss." 

La  Rose  made  promise  with  her  eyes;  then 
turning  to  her  friends,  called  cheerily:  "Come, 
another  glass  and  another  verse  to  prove  appre- 
ciation of  the  song  and  the  saintly  rogue  who 
wrote  it." 

They  sang  it  merrily  in  concert,  while  Ray- 
mond waved  La  Rose's  fan  in  lieu  of  a  leader's 
baton;  but  the  closing  lines  were  interrupted  by 
the  sounds  of  a  mighty  cheering  on  the  street 
and  the  lights  of  torches  flashing  through  the 
open  windows. 

"  Listen ! "  cried  Lizette,  a  dainty  butterfly 
who  fluttered  near  the  balcony. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  another  of  M.  Duval, 
who  stood  beside  her.  "  Hark !  they  are  coming 
nearer ! " 

"  It  seems,"  said  the  cavalier,  with  a  glance 
toward  the  street,  "  to  be  a  line  of  maskers  on 

their  way  to  a  festival." 

28 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  A  festival !    What  festival  ? " 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  cannot  say." 

"  Upon  mine,  I  can,"  laughed  Raymond  rue- 
fully, "  I  have  just  escaped  from  that  murderous 
procession!"  The  guests  pressed  round  him, 
eager  for  an  explanation.  "  I  was  being  driven 
hither  when  my  carriage  was  rudely  stopped  by 
that  howling  horde  of  masked  barbarians ;  they 
blocked  the  streets  completely  —  hooting, 
screeching,  cutting  capers  that  would  cast  de- 
spair on  the  king's  menagerie.  My  driver 
swore  superbly,  but  the  rabble  gave  him  better 
than  he  sent,  and  at  length  four  burly  bandits 
clambered  through  my  carriage  windows,  insist- 
ing that  I  help  along  their  festival  in  the  matter 
of  small  coin." 

"What!"  gasped  La  Rose.  "You  were 
robbed?" 

Raymond  shook  his  head.  "  No,  not  exactly 
robbed — persuaded.  You  see,  their  arguments 
were  backed  by  short,  fat  clubs  and  jagged  pav- 
ing stones ;  so  I  merely  bowed  to  their  superior 
knowledge  of  my  welfare,  exchanging  my  coin 
for  wholesome  information.  Look ! "  he  laughed 

as  he  held  up  his  open  purse.    "  As  empty  as 

29 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

my  wine-glass.  I  must  beg  a  sou  or  two  from 
my  generous  friends,  or  foot  it  home  in  the  early 
morning." 

"  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  the  celebra- 
tion ? "  asked  Violette,  as  she  passed  his  wine. 

"  Well,"  said  Raymond,  "  purely  as  a  guess  I 
should  say  that  the  barbers  were  giving  a  fete  in 
honour  of  some  one  who  has  cut  the  throat  of 
some  one  else.  The  barbers  rejoice.  Heaven 
wonders  which  can  be  the  greater  villain — the 
slayer  or  the  slain,  and  the  devil  laughs,  for  he 
has  one  rogue,  and  will  get  the  other." 

"  What  a  ghastly  jest !  "  simpered  Violette, 
and  followed  the  laughing  guests,  who  were 
passing  out  upon  the  balcony  to  watch  the 
maskers  in  the  street  below. 

"Are  you  coming,  Raymond?"  called  La 
Rose. 

"  Thanks,  no,"  he  answered,  "  I've  had  enough 
of  the  barbers'  handiwork;  they  shaved  me 
clean." 

Raymond  turned  and  crossed  to  the  room's 
remaining  occupant,  a  man  who,  during  all  the 
merriment,  had  sat  apart  in  gloomy  silence, 

listening  with  ill-concealed  annoyance  to  the 

30 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

rasping  clatter  of  their  irritating  tongues.  He 
was  of  middle  age  and  heavy  frame,  with  strong 
and  not  unhandsome  features,  marked  by  learn- 
ing and  experience ;  a  face  of  power,  yet  shad- 
owed by  a  look  of  weariness  and  suffering,  a 
look  of  longing  for  a  passion  still  unsatisfied — a 
hope  beyond  his  hope.  Many  envied  him  for 
his  fame  and  wealth, — the  first  physician  of  his 
day,  with  a  private  fortune  equalling  that  of  the 
Due  de  la  Fere,  King  Louis'  favourite;  but 
others  read,  in  that  stern  unbending  counte- 
nance, the  stamp  of  sullen  cruelty,  where  Fate 
had  slashed  him  with  her  lines  of  bitterness  and 
pain.  And  yet,  no  patient  was  ever  turned  away 
for  lack  of  fees,  and  the  kindly  ring  in  his  deep 
bass  voice  belied  the  harshness  of  his  thin, 
straight  lips  and  dogged  chin.  The  doctor's 
cup  was  a  cup  whose  joy  had  spilled ;  he  gave, 
and  forgot  the  gifts;  but  his  harvests  were 
choked  with  the  thistles. 

"  Bon  soir,  Jardin ! "  called  Raymond  cheerily. 
"  Why  so  melancholy? " 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  the  doctor  answered 
lazily.  "  I  was  merely  thinking." 

"  An  evil  habit,  friend ;  get  over  it.     But  be- 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

fore  you  mend  your  ways  tell  me  your  opinion 
of  La  Rose." 

"  Honestly,"  the  doctor  asked,  "  or  shall  I  mix 
my  medicine  with  sugar?" 

Raymond  smiled.  "  Thank  you,  no ;  I  can 
swallow  it  without  the  sweetening.  Well  ? " 

"  Harmless." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? " 

Jardin  yawned  and  tapped  his  forehead  with 
his  finger.  "  Weak.  .  .  .  Pretty  enough  to  look 
at  beyond  a  doubt — sweet  as  the  flower  whose 
name  she  bears,  and  yet — her  brains  would  less 
than  fill  my  silver  snuff-box."  He  offered  it 
politely.  '''  Try  it,  Raymond ;  it  clears  the  head. 
Sneeze  .  .  .  and  forget  her !" 

The  snuff  was  smilingly  declined ;  Jardin  re- 
sumed : 

"  La  Rose  is  a  happy  soul ;  but  as  I  said  be- 
fore, quite  harmless.  A  flower  which  man  may 
pluck  and  throw  away  at  will ;  it  is  neither  rare 
nor  poisonous." 

"  Philosopher,  sage,  and  botanist ! "  laughed 
Raymond.  "  What  variety  of  flower  is  .  .  .  Le 
Corbeau  ? " 

" Mort  Dieu,  a  poppy!"  cried  the  doctor, 
32 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

straightening  in  his  chair.  "That  deadly 
bloom,  as  beautiful  as  deadly,  and  he  who  dares 
inhale  its  subtle  fragrance  is  lulled  to  slumber 
and  to  dreams  of  heaven ! " 

He  paused,  then  asked  abruptly: 
"  Raymond,  did  you  never  eat  opium  ? " 
"  Helasf"    sighed  Raymond  in  mock  dejec- 
tion.   "  It  is  the  one  vice  I  do  not  possess." 

"  Then  don't  acquire  it ! "  Jardin  rose,  walked 
the  floor,  and  spoke  with  harsh  intensity.  "  A 
man  who  becomes  its  victim  is  lost  forever. 
While  under  its  baleful  spell  he  is  happy,  con- 
tent, at  peace  with  himself  and  all  the  world, 
although  he  knows  he  is  slowly  drifting  to  hide- 
ous death;  but  take  away  his  drug — and  the 
horrors  of  hell  have  claimed  him — body,  mind, 
and  soul !  No  rest  save  in  his  sweet  indulgence 
—no  peace  save  with  his  tyrant ! "  The  doctor 
clenched  his  hands  and  added  in  a  low,  fierce 
whisper:  "And  like  the  opium-eater  is  the 
thrice-accursed  wretch  .  .  .  who  loves  Cor- 
beau!" 

"  My  dear  Jardin,"  said  Raymond  in  deep 
concern,  "  you  seem  to  be  serious.  I  had  never 
supposed  that— 

3  33 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Yes,"  replied  his  friend,  and  sank  wearily  to 
his  seat,  "  I  speak  straight  from  the  heart — what 
little  she  has  left  of  it.  Ah,  Raymond,  I  would 
give  my  wealth — to  the  last  poor  sou — for  your 
sunny  disposition  and  philosophy;  you,  whose 
days  pass  by  like  the  music  of  your  merry 
songs." 

"  Perhaps  my  tune  may  change  in  the  final 
roasting,"  the  musician  ventured  with  a  grin. 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  and  yet  you  are  happy.  You 
write  your  dainty  ballads,  as  sparkling  as  the 
wine  you  love  next  best  to  music.  Paris  loves 
them,  and  Paris  loves  you  .  .  .  and  why?  Be- 
cause you  are  cheerful.  Because  you  are  a  wit. 
Because  you  never  take  life  seriously,  and  your 
wine  of  youth  has  not  gone  flat  and  bitter. 
Man,  man,  I  envy  you.  You  have  a  place  in 
life." 

"And  you,  Jardin?"  asked  Raymond,  with  a 
touch  of  sadness  in  his  voice. 

"  I — God  help  me — have  eaten  of  the  poppy 
flower ! " 

Raymond  placed  his  hand  affectionately  on 
the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Come,  come,  Jardin,  you  grow  despondent. 
34 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

When  love  becomes  too  heavy  for  the  heart  to 
bear,  then  drown  it  in  champagne."  He  filled 
two  glasses,  placing  one  upon  a  table  at  the  doc- 
tor's elbow.  "  Come,  drink  with  me,"  he  cried, 
"drink  and  forget.  You'll  find  it  even  better 
than  your  snuff.  And,  after  all,"  he  added  in  a 
tone  of  banter,  "  what  is  love  but  a  little  mon- 
ster who  contrives  to  crush  us  when  once  we  let 
him  get  the  whip-hand."  He  raised  his  glass : 
"  And  so,  sacrebleu  /  you  should  never  let  him 
get  it!" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  and  pushed  away 
the  proffered  wine. 

"  No,  no,  my  friend,  your  advice  has  come  too 
late.  I've  lost  the  whip-hand,  and  I  only  know 
the  lash — so  keen — so  cruel — God!  .  .  .  how 
well  she  lays  it  on ! " 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  Each,  busied 
with  his  thoughts,  sat  listening  to  the  boisterous 
shouts  of  maskers  in  the  street  below  and  the 
ceaseless  chatter  of  the  guests  upon  the  balcony. 
Then  Raymond  broke  the  silence. 

"  Jardin,"  he  said,  "  your  pardon  if  I  touch  a 
wound,  but  I  could  never  understand  how  a 
man  of  your  intelligence  became  Le  Corbeau's 

35 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

prey,  when  your  iron  will  might  set  you  free, 
...  or  make  you  master." 

Jardin's  reply  came  slowly,  truthfully,  but 
tinged  with  scoffing  self-contempt  for  the  weak- 
ness which  conceived  his  misery: 

"  A  sled  on  a  mountain  side — the  trip  is  easier 
down  than  up.  .  .  .  First  I  was  Corbeau's  phy- 
sician .  .  .  then  I  was  Corbeau's  slave.  For 
her  I  deserted  my  wife  and  my  children;  for 
her  I  squander  my  wealth  and  wreck  my  happi- 
ness .  .  .  and  for  what?  To  be  tapped  with 
her  ivory  fan  and  called  by  silly  pet  names  .  .  . 
to  catch  at  a  few  stale  crumbs  of  favour  tossed 
in  my  face,  and  then  be  cast  aside  for  men 
whom  I  loathe.  Men  like  that  blatant  ass, 
Duchant — the  poet  and  novelist  who  wrings  his 
hands  and  makes  vile  rhymes — writes  stories  of 
love  that  would  shock  a  vagrant.  Men  who  buy 
their  aristocracy  for  a  handful  of  dirty  gold. 
Ah,  Raymond,  it  sickens  me  to  the  soul.  I  hate 
this  place,  with  its  shallow  coarseness,  its  odour 
of  stale  wine,  its  taint  of  sin  .  .  .  and  yet  I 
come  .  .  .  come  always  .  .  .  and  for  her ! " 

"Still,"  said  Raymond  thoughtfully,  "she  is 
different  from  the  rest.  Call  her  heartless— 

36 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

cruel — what  you  will — and  beneath  it  all  lurk 
polish  and  refinement,  a  stamp  of  birth  which 
even  such  a  life  as  hers  can  never  quite  obliter- 
ate. Tell  me,  Jardin,  do  you  know  Le  Corbeau's 
name  ?  Not  the  nickname  we  call  her  by,  but 
that  which  her  father  gave  her." 

The  doctor  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  know  her  name 
and  who  her  parents  were,  but  am  not  at  liberty 
to  tell  you,  since  it  came  to  me  by  accident,  and 
I  gave  a  pledge  of  silence.  But  this  much  I 
may  say — the  best  and  proudest  blood  of  France 
is  in  her  veins." 

"  Crossed  with  a  dash  of  Satan's,"  suggested 
Raymond.* 

"  Aye,  crossed  with  a  dash  of  Satan's,"  Jardin 
assented  bitterly,  then  added  in  a  burst  of  pas- 
sionate vehemence :  "  I  tell  you,  Raymond,  the 
woman  is  a  devil — a  heartless,  venomous  devil, 
who  grinds  the  hopes  of  men  beneath  her  heel, 
and  laughs  at  it — laughs  at  it !  Sometimes  she 
taunts  me  till  I  could  strangle  her  .  .  .  but 
when  she  smiles  .  .  .  ah,  then,  my  friend,  I  sell 
my  soul — the  price  of  a  curving  lip." 

The  deep  voice  ceased,  and  the  great  physi- 
cian, whom  Paris  looked  upon  as  a  man  of  iron, 

37 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


buried  his  face  between  his  two  strong  hands, 
and  trembled. 

Raymond  touched  him  gently  on  the  shoulder. 
"  Jardin,"  he  urged,  "  leave  Paris  for  a  month ; 
the  change  will  do  you  good.  Go  to  my  chateau 
and  rest.  My  horses  and  wine  are  yours.  Ride ! 
Drink,  my  friend,  drink  as  deep  as  you  will,  but 
put  Le  Corbeau  from  your  mind  .  .  .  for  once 
and  for  all.  Go,  Jardin ;  you  are  far  too  good  a 
man  to  break  upon  the  wheel." 

The  doctor  looked  up  wearily  and  pressed  his 
companion's  hand. 

"  I  thank  you,  Raymond,"  he  murmured 
sadly,  "  I  thank  you  from  my  heart,  but  your 
kindness  comes  too  late.  The  drug  is  in  the 
blood  ...  to  take  it  from  me — well — you  know 
the  rest." 

"Go  on — and  nothing  can  be  gained.  You 
yourself  have  said  it." 

Jardin  laughed  harshly:  "A  game  at  cards 
between  the  devil  and  despair  .  .  .  and  the 
devil  has  the  deal ! " 

"  A  losing  game  for  you  should  either  win," 
urged  Raymond  earnestly. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  the  doctor  frowned,  "  and 
38 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

yet — the  turning  of  a  single  trick  would  make 
me  master  where  I've  been  the  slave." 

"  And  you  hesitate,  Jardin?    And  why?  " 

"  Because " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  the  doc- 
tor dropped  his  eyes  in  conscious  shame. 

"  Because  .  .  .  my  bread  is  the  bread  of  the 
poppy  flower.  I've  eaten  .  .  .  and  must  eat." 


39 


CHAPTER    IV 

FURTHER  speech  between  the  friends  was  at 
this  point  rudely  interrupted,  not  only  by  the 
returning  guests  with  noisy  comments  on  the 
barbers'  festival,  but  by  the  entrance  of  Jardin's 
bete  noire,  the  poet.  Monsieur  Duchant  was  a 
man  of  some  thirty  years,  fat,  but  effeminate, 
with  round  and  rolling  eyes,  which  showed  the 
whites  beneath ;  he  wore  a  much-slashed  suit  of 
sapphire  blue,  a  sword,  and  an  air  of  lofty  pa- 
tronage. 

The  new  arrival  rushed  effusively  toward  the 
guests,  who  received  him  with  a  babel  of  clatter- 
ing tongues — his  own  meanwhile,  like  a  ribbon 
in  the  wind,  fluttering  incessantly  with  greetings 
and  self-contained  acknowledgments. 

" Peste,  he  is  here!"  exclaimed  Jardin  dis- 
gustedly. 'The  poet!  Dieu !  Raymond,  in 
pity's  name,  suppress  that  conceited  pig!  His 
ceaseless  drivelling  drives  me  mad !  He  thinks 
the  whole  wide  world  is  grovelling  at  his  minc- 
ing feet  to  hear  him  read  his  poetry.  His 

40 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

poetry!  Faugh!  Quarrel  with  him,  Raymond 
— run  him  through,  and  be  my  friend  for 
life." 

Raymond  grinned,  but  his  answer  was  lost  in 
shouts  of  "  Vive  Duchant !  Long  life  to  the 
poet ! "  which  echoed  from  the  laughing  com- 
pany, while  La  Rose  poured  wine  and  presented 
it  to  the  beaming  bard. 

"A  glass,"  she  cried,  "to  the  jeweller  of 
rhyme,  and  then  I'm  sure,  if  we  plead  with  him, 
he  will  honour  us  with  his  latest  verse." 

"  Duchant !  Duchant ! "  cheered  the  clamour- 
ing guests  as  the  poet  bowed  and  smirked  de- 
lightedly. 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  dear  friends,"  he  lisped ; 
"it  is  a  joy  ineffable  to  live  in  the  hearts  of 
courage,  youth,  and  loveliness.  And  I  ?  I  claim 
them  all." 

Jardin  sighed  hopelessly  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  but  the  poet  smiled  and  sipped  his 
wine  in  serene  complacence. 

"  And  now,  Monsieur,"  begged  Violette,  "  the 
verses." 

"  Alas ! "  he  murmured  languidly  and  raised 
his  bovine  eyes,  "  my  latest  verses  are  not  quite 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

finished,  but  I  know  the  theme  will  meet  your 
just  approval.  The  poem  is  called  .  .  .  Cor- 
beau, the  Sorceress" 

"  Good !  Good ! "  declared  his  listeners,  but 
the  doctor  bit  his  lip,  and  turned  away  like  a 
man  in  pain. 

"First  tell  me,"  begged  Duchant,  "has  Le 
Corbeau  yet  returned  ? " 

"  No,"  said  La  Rose,  "  but  we  expect  her  any 
moment.  She's  at  the  theatre  with  Monsieur 
Chatillon,  and  oh !  £mile,  you  should  see  the 
gown  she  wears — black  satin — with  a  full-blown 
poppy  flower  pinned  at  the  breast — another  in 
her  hair.  Poor  Chatillon,"  she  laughed,  "  I  pity 
him !  But  we  have  a  treat  in  store  this  evening ; 
Corbeau  has  promised  to  sing  for  us  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  her  new  guitar." 

"  Ha ! "  exclaimed  Duchant,  "  it  is  so  that  I 
have  pictured  her  in  verse — a  guitar  with  a  crim- 
son ribbon.  Strange  that  I  should  hit  the  mark 
without  a  hint.  Prophetic ! "  He  turned  to  the 
other  ladies  and  continued  volubly:  "  Now,  first 
the  inspiration  of  this  poem  came  to  me  on 
Wednesday  last  as  I  sat  alone  in  my  summer 

garden." 

42 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Come,  tell  us  of  it,"  the  ladies  urged,  push- 
ing him  down  into  an  easy-chair  and  crowding 
round  him  in  their  eagerness  to  hear,  while  the 
flattered  scribbler  simpered  happily  and  began 
his  recitation. 

"  Oh,  the  accursed  bandit ! "  the  doctor  mut- 
tered angrily  to  Raymond.  "An  iron  pike 
thrust  down  his  throat  would  fail  to  stop  him 
gabbling  of  his  poetry.  Can  you  do  naught 
to  quiet  him  ?  Pardieu  !  He  maddens  me ! " 

"Better  still,"  laughed  Raymond,  "I'll  make 
him  talk.  The  tongue  of  a  fool — when  long 
enough — is  a  rope  to  hang  him  by.  Pray  bear 
with  him  until  I  knot  the  noose."  He  stepped 
toward  the  close-packed  circle  and  said  pro- 
testingly :  "  Ladies,  ladies,  this  is  unfair.  Be 
not  so  greedy  with  Monsieur  Duchant,  when 
we  all  are  eager  for  his  latest  and  his  greatest 
poem." 

The  poet  rose  with  a  sweeping  bow:  "An 
honour,  Monsieur  Delese,  an  honour.  But 
there — I  shall  call  you  Raymond;  for  are  we 
not  brothers  in  art — you  the  musician  and  I  the 
poet?" 

"  Monsieur,  you  overwhelm  me,"  said  Ray- 
43 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


mond  modestly.  "  I  love  my  music,  it  is  true, 
but  never  dared  to  lift  my  eyes  to  the  height  on 
which  stands  the  great  Duchant." 

Some  one  tittered,  but  the  poet  puffed  his 
chest  and  patted  Raymond's  shoulder  with  a 
much  beringed  and  condescending  hand. 

"Courage,  my  boy,"  he  rippled  soothingly, 
"  I've  heard  your  music,  and  believe  me,  it  has 
merit  —  a  little  crude,  perhaps,  but,  on  the 
whole,  I  pronounce  it  good." 

The  doctor  laughed.  Duchant  went  on  with- 
out a  pause:  "  Keep  at  it,  Raymond,  and  do  not 
despair,  and  some  fine  day — when  you  least  ex- 
pect it — success  will  come  to  you  .  .  .  even  as 
it  came  to  me." 

Raymond  answered  solemnly,  but  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye:  "And  when  it  comes  .  .  . 
may  I  hope  to  wear  my  laurel  wreath  with  half 
the  modesty  of  the  bard,  whom  France  has  not 
yet  learned  to  love.  And  now,  Monsieur,  I  pray 
you  tell  us  of  the  Sorceress." 

The  poet  swallowed  Raymond's  doubtful  com- 
pliment, cleared  his  throat,  and  raised  a  flabby 
hand  for  silence. 

"  First,"  he  said,  "  I  tell  how  Le  Corbeau  took 
44 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

her  name,  for  you  know,  Messieurs,  she  is  called 
Corbeau  because  her  hair  is  black  as  the  raven's 
wing.  And  here,  I  have  a  dainty  bit  which  1 
may  call — er — strong.  Hem  !  Then  I  describe 
her  violet  eyes — those  wondrous  eyes  which  no 
man  fathoms." 

"And  God  help  him  who  tries!"  the  doctor 
muttered  in  a  grim  aside. 

Duchant  continued:  "I  then  weave  on  the 
story  of  how  Le  Corbeau  wields  her  sceptre  o'er 
the  hearts  of  men,  for  she  is,  indeed,  a  sorceress, 
and  where  she  wills  .  .  .  her  lovers  must  obey. 
The  verse  is  good,  but  spare  me  the  rhyme — a 
poet's  memory — bad — detestable !  It  is  in  this 
wise.  .  .  .  Le  Corbeau  lies  asleep — a  sweet,  calm 
sleep ;  her  fragrant  breath  alternately  ebbs  and 
flows  through  parted  lips — red  lips  that  smile  in 
conscious  loveliness  above  a  row  of  teeth  which 
put  our  fairest  pearls  to  shame."  The  poet 
bowed  to  the  clapping  of  many  hands.  "  The 
jealous  lashes  hide  her  lustrous  eyes,  and  lie  in 
sable  curves  upon  her  cheek  ...  a  winsome 
cheek,  tinged  with  the  peach-blow  blush  of 
youth  and  purity." 

"  Bravo  !    Bravo  !  " 

45 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Delicious ! "  chirped  La  Rose.  "  The  lines 
are  like  a  sip  of  sweetest  wine." 

"  And  that  last  lie,"  whispered  Raymond  to 
Jardin,  "  is  worthy  of  the  polished  Ananias." 

Duchant  bowed  low  at  La  Rose's  compliment, 
and  spoke  once  more: 

"  Her  snowy  bosom  falls,  to  rise  again,  like 
dimpling,  sun-kissed  waves  upon  the  sea,  while 
one  small  hand  lies  captive  'neath  her  head, 
caressed  by  raven  tresses.  One  white,  white 
elbow  from  the  couch's  edge  peeps  at  a  saucy 
ankle  half  concealed " 

"Hold!  Hold,  master  poet!"  shouted  Ray- 
mond boisterously. 

"Silence!"  called  La  Rose.  "Go  on,  Du- 
chant." 

The  poet  frowned,  and  continued  haltingly: 
"  And  then — and  then  Le  Corbeau  sighs,  and 
restless  grows " 

"  Tickled  by  some  unpoetic  fly,"  the  musician 
interjected,  with  a  laugh,  which  was  taken  up 
by  all  the  assembled  gentlemen. 

"God  bless  the  boy!"  the  doctor  breathed 
with  fervour,  while  La  Rose  reproached  the 

offender  angrily. 

46 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Raymond,  how  dare  you ! " 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  in  mock  contrition, 
"  but  I  only  made  a  dramatic  climax,  that  was 
all.  The  scene  was  incomplete  without  the  fly." 

"  It  was  most  unkind.  I  blush  for  you,"  she 
answered,  and  turned  consolingly  to  the  ruffled 
poet:  "Never  mind  him,  dear  limile;  go  on 
with  your  pretty  verses." 

"  The  poem  is  spoiled,"  said  Duchant  in  a 
surly  tone,  "and  by  Monsieur  Delese,  who 
seems  to  have  small  heart  for  literature." 

"  No,  no,"  they  urged ;  "  go  on,  go  on ! "  and 
slightly  mollified  by  the  soothing  voice  of  flat- 
tery, he  once  more  cleared  his  throat  and  began 
in  hesitation : 

"  The — er — the  rest  I  may  not  tell  for  fear  of 
jealousy ;  and  besides — it  is  a  secret." 

"  Tell  us,"  pleaded  Violette.  "  The  part  we 
most  wish  to  hear.  A  secret?  Ho  ho!  De- 
lightful!" 

"Friends,"  said  Duchant,  as  he  clasped  his 
hands  and  rolled  his  egg-like  eyes,  "  I  love  Cor- 
beau!" 

"Most  natural,"  laughed  La  Rose,  "and  so 
do  I." 

47 


"And  I,"  "And  I,"  "And  I,"  rose  aery  from 
every  side. 

"And  now  the  secret.  Fill  your  glasses — 
full."  The  poet  wet  his  lips  with  wine  and 
whispered  impressively:  "The  secret  .  .  .  she 
loves  me  in  return." 

From  the  company  burst  a  shout  of  laughter 
in  which  even  the  ladies  joined,  while  again  the 
doctor  muttered  in  a  hoarse  aside : 

"  Misguided  fool !  Le  Corbeau  loves  Corbeau 
— naught  else  beneath  the  stars." 

"  Ah,  laugh  if  you  will,"  said  the  scribbler,  un- 
abashed. "  I  tell  you  but  the  truth ;  and  listen : 
last  night  I  dreamed  a  dream — so  strange  and 
terrible  that  I  needs  must  wTeave  its  substance 
in  the  loom  of  verse." 

The  guests  pressed  closely  about  Duchant, 
whose  weak  voice  shrilled  excitedly  as  he  told 
his  tale  in  pedantic  declamation : 

"  I  dreamed  I  sought  Corbeau  and  told  her  of 
my  love  with  passion's  power.  And  she,  in  like 
words,  sobbed  the  story  of  her  heart.  She  loved 
me  utterly,  and  begged  with  many  tears  that  we 
should  fly  to  some  far  country,  there  to  be  alone. 

I,  eager  for  the  journey,  took  her  in  my  arms, 

48 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

when  lo !  .  .  .  Jardin  sprang  at  me  with  a  naked 
sword." 

"Sangdieu!  and  so  I  would!"  the  doctor 
growled,  his  stern  eyes  turning  on  the  loose- 
tongued  dreamer,  his  thin  lips  straightening  in 
a  hard,  white  line ;  but  the  poet,  lost  in  admira- 
tion of  his  own  choice  words,  pursued  his  theme 
to  its  tragic  denouement. 

"  Quick  from  its  scabbard  leaped  my  eager 
blade.  Clash  on  clash  rerang  the  music  of  our 
steel,  and  I,  retreating  from  the  fury  of  his 
thrusts,  stumbled  and  fell  —  to  feel  Jardin's 
sharp  sword's  point  press  my  throat.  ...  And 
as  I  prostrate  lay,  gasping  a  prayer  or  two,  I 
saw  Le  Corbeau  creep — as  creeps  the  clean- 
limbed tiger  —  crouch  and  spring.  .  .  .  And 
with  her  eyes  agleam  with  hell's  hot  fire  .  .  . 
her  jewelled  dagger  smote  Jardin  .  .  .  while 
from  her  scarlet  lips  burst,  shrill,  the  cry, 
'fimile!  For  my  £mile!'  .  .  .  and  I  awoke." 

The  poet  paused,  and  silence  for  a  moment 
reigned  unbroken,  till  a  white-cheeked  woman 
murmured,  "  Wonderful ! " 

"  Ghastly ! "  breathed  La  Rose. 

"  Ridiculous ! "  scoffed  Raymond,  wheeling 
4  49 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

on  the  dreamer  suddenly :  "  Now  let  me  be  a 
Daniel  to  your  king,  Duchant,  and  tell  you  .  .  . 
that  Le  Corbeau  cares  no  more  for  you  than  for 
an  idle  puff  of  wind.  Pray  mark  the  simile. 
Love  you  ?  Pah  !  Were  the  devil  himself  to 
come  in  gentlemanly  attire,  and  were  he  proper 
and  passing  good  to  look  upon,  I  swear  Corbeau 
would  kiss  his  sooty  visage  from  chin  to  fore- 
lock!" 

"Stop!  On  your  life  be  silent!"  the  poet 
burst  out  angrily. 

"  Bravo  /  "  exclaimed  Jardin  in  unctuous  joy. 
"At  last!" 

Raymond  paid  no  heed  to  the  flaming  face 
and  trembling  hands  of  the  outraged  rhymster 
made  furious  by  his  speech,  but  continued  smil- 
ingly: 

"  She  kissed  me  seven  times  on  yesterday,  and 
put  her  splendid  arms " 

"A  lie!  A  lie!  In  your  teeth,  Monsieur 
Delese,  you  lie ! "  And  in  a  rage,  which  made 
him  even  more  absurd  than  his  declamation, 
Duchant  whipped  out  his  sword. 

In  an  instant  wild  confusion  reigned;  the 
ladies  screamed  and  rushed  for  safety  through 

50 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

the  open  doors  and  out  upon  the  balcony,  while 
several  gentlemen  hastened  to  interpose  between 
the  two  contestants. 

"Come,  come,  Duchant,"  said  one,  "it  was 
nothing  but  a  jest.  Don't  take  the  man  in 
earnest.  Why,  he's  laughing  at  you." 

"There  are  ladies  present,"  another  urged. 
"  Put  up  your  blades." 

"  Stand  back,  Messieurs ! "  Duchant  cried  an- 
grily. "  The  quarrel  is  mine,  not  yours !  Draw, 
Delese !  I  wait  you !  Draw ! " 

"  It  is  quite  impossible  to  fight  you  here,"  said 
Raymond,  with  his  blandest  smile ;  "but  if  the 
ladies  will  permit,  and  you  follow  me  to  the 
street  below,  I  believe  the  matter  might  be  set- 
tled to  your  taste.  Then,  too,  to-morrow,  you 
may  write  another  sonnet,  telling  how  you  swal- 
lowed half  my  sword — a  dainty  bit  which  we 
might  call — er — strong." 

The  doctor  laughed  delightedly,  but  the  poet 
stamped  his  foot  in  fury. 

"  Sir,  if  you  are  not  a  coward — draw !  " 

"Now,  by  St.  Gris,"  said  Raymond,  as  he 
drew  his  sword,  "  I  needs  must  damn  poor  Pur- 
gatory with  another  poet ! " 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  thin  blades  gritted  one  against  the  other 
with  a  rasping  hiss,  amid  the  throaty  squeaks 
of  women  and  the  plaudits  of  several  gentle- 
men, who  loudly  offered  wagers  on  the  duel's 
outcome,  while  the  doctor  rubbed  his  hands  in 
an  ecstasy  of  delight,  and  cried  out  merrily : 

"  Oh,  the  glory  of  it !  Dieu  /  .  .  .  Don't  kill 
him,  Raymond  —  only  split  his  everlasting 
tongue ! " 

Raymond  held  his  opponent  easily,  his  slen- 
der body  bent  in  supple  grace,  and  played  Du- 
chant  as  a  cat  might  tease  a  mouse,  while  the 
poet,  on  dancing  calves,  hopped  nervously  about 
like  grease  in  a  heated  griddle,  evading  the  sword 
that  threatened  from  an  hundred  points  at  once. 
Duchant  gave  ground,  but  Raymond  pressed 
relentlessly;  a  stoop,  a  lightning  feint,  and  a 
blade  shot  deftly  across  the  poet's  guard,  its 
keen  point  disappearing  in  the  roots  of  his 
bushy  hair;  a  heave,  a  backward  step,  and  the 
rhymester's  wig  hung  dangling  from  the  end  of 
Raymond's  sword.  A  roar  of  mirth  resounded 
from  the  watching  gentlemen  when  the  poet's 
pate — as  bald  as  his  own  fat  thumb — shone 
luminously  in  the  flickering  candle  light.  Du- 

52 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


chant,  made  frantic  by  remorseless  banter, 
flung  caution  to  the  winds,  and  attacked  his  foe 
with  the  fury  of  a  cat ;  but  his  madness  only 
served  to  mar  his  wig,  for  Raymond  held  it  in 
such  a  way  as  to  catch  each  wicked  thrust,  and 
the  hair  flew  out  in  tufts.  Lunge  followed 
lunge,  and  passes  met  repulse,  till  the  fencers 
reached  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  then — a 
flash  of  black  through  the  open  doorway — a 
guitar,  with  an  upward  swing,  which  struck  the 
swords  apart — and  Le  Corbeau  stood  between 
the  duellists. 

"  Messieurs !  .  .  .  "  she  cried  in  imperious 
wrath,  "  in  the  devil's  name,  what  means  this 
ruffians'  brawl?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  fire  as  she  darted  a  swift, 
inquiring  glance  at  the  two  offenders;  then, 
catching  sight  of  the  poet's  polished  scalp  and 
the  tattered  wig  transfixed  on  Raymond's  blade, 
her  anger  vanished  like  a  trampled  spark,  and 
from  its  ashes  rose  an  impish  peal  of  madcap 
laughter. 

In  an  instant  the  company  rushed  upon  her 
with  excited  gestures  and  a  Babel  of  jabbering 
tongues,  each  striving  to  tell  his  story  in  a  voice 

53 


above  the  rest,  till  Le  Corbeau  clapped  her  hands 
upon  her  ears  and  broke  from  the  clamorous 
swarm. 

"  Quelle  Iwrreur  !  "  she  gasped.  "  Have  you 
all  gone  mad  ?  Stop !  Stop  instantly ! " 

"  But  listen,  Corbeau,"  the  poet  spluttered 
angrily,  as  he  strove  to  rearrange  his  damaged 
wig,  "  I  drew  my  sword  in  your  defence. 
I " 

"The  man  has  insulted  you  with  dreams," 
shouted  Raymond  above  the  din,  "dreams  of 
such  nauseous  imbecility  as  to " 

"Tis  false!    I  dreamed- 

"  Have  done ! "  Le  Corbeau  cried  in  a  gust  of 
petulance,  which  fled  again  as  swiftly  as  it  came. 
"  Pouf!  I  feared  I  had  plunged  before  my  time 
through  the  crust  of  purgatory.  Pouf!  " 

"  But  Corbeau "  Duchant  still  urged. 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  his  mouth. 
"There,  there,  I  know  it  without  the  telling. 
A  game  of  dice — wine  that  mounted  too  quickly 
to  the  brain " 

"  Upon  my  honour,  no !     Listen ! " 

"  Well  then,  a  jest — a  few  hot  words,  or — or 
a  woman."  And  Le  Corbeau  laughed.  "  Most 

54 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

likely  a  woman ;  but  the  cause  matters  little.  If 
there  has  been  a  quarrel  .  .  .  then  fight  it  out 
at  another  time ;  only,  for  the  present,  give  me 
peace  and  silence.  Dieu  /"  she  cried,  and  flung 
her  hands  above  her  head,  "  my  jostled  brain  is 
whirling  like  a  top!  Will  no  one  give  me  a 
glass  of  wine?  .  .  .  Ah!  thanks,  Raymond. 
There  .  .  .  put  up  your  swords." 

The  two  blades  slid  obediently  into  their 
sheaths,  and  Le  Corbeau  raised  her  glass. 

"A  truce  to  battle!  See,"  she  cried,  "our 
anger  sinks  with  the  worthless  lees,  and  only 
mirth  and  happiness  can  swim  on  the  bubbly 
wine." 

Merrily  the  glasses  clinked;  the  erstwhile 
duellists  shook  hands  in  a  solemn  pledge  of 
peace,  and  a  semblance  of  order  being  at  last 
restored,  the  company,  with  one  accord,  began 
to  beg  Le  Corbeau  for  a  song. 

"  What  shall  I  sing? "  she  asked.  "  Um— let 
me  see " 

"  The  '  Picador,' "  suggested  Raymond.  "  By 
all  means  sing  the  '  Picador.' " 

The  others  voiced  approval ;  so  she  smilingly 

consented. 

55 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  But  wait ! "  cried  Raymond.  "  Corbeau  is 
queen,  and  the  queen  shall  have  a  throne." 

"  Good,  mon  ami  /"  Le  Corbeau  clapped  her 
hands,  and  tossed  him  a  wilted  poppy  flower  in 
reward  of  gallantry. 

Raymond  drew  an  easy-chair  to  the  centre  of 
the  room,  and  bracing  it  firmly,  draped  the 
whole  with  a  crimson  coverlet  filched  from  a 
near-by  lounge,  then  offered  his  hand  to  assist 
the  queen  in  mounting ;  but  the  queen,  with  a 
laugh,  sprang  lightly  upon  her  throne,  and 
crossing  her  slippered  feet  on  the  seat  of  the 
cushioned  chair,  perched  on  its  back  in  regal 
rakishness — a  queen  of  witches,  crowned  with 
the  glamour  of  her  own  satanic  charm. 

As  Le  Corbeau  tuned  her  silver-stringed  gui- 
tar, she  glanced  from  time  to  time  through  half- 
closed  eyes  toward  the  lounging  figure  of  Jardin, 
who  seemed  to  take  no  share  in  the  reckless 
jollity,  but  sat  apart  in  moody  silence  like  a 
spectre  at  the  feast.  Presently  she  spoke,  her 
low  voice  smooth  and  soft  as  a  kitten's  purr, 
yet  laden  with  the  poisoned  sting  of  irony : 

"  Monsieur  Jardin  .  .  .  is  Madame  Jardin  .  .  . 

dead?" 

56 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  doctor  scented  danger  in  her  tone,  and 
answered  cautiously: 

"  No,  madame.  .  .  .  I'm  in  receipt  of  no  such 
evil  tidings." 

"Ah!  .  .  .  Some  other  loved  one,  then,  I 
make  no  doubt." 

"  There  are  none  whom  I  call  to  mind." 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  she  begged  in  mock  hu- 
mility, while  her  red  lip  curled  in  sneering  inso- 
lence, "pardon.  I  feared  from  your  counte- 
nance, which,  on  my  soul,  does  credit  to  a  burial 
inspector  .  .  .  that  you  had  lost  some  relative." 

The  doctor  met  the  challenge  in  her  smoulder- 
ing eyes,  and  retorted  coldly:  "  No;  the  roll  call 
is  still  complete — too  complete;  but  I'm  in  no 
mood  for  merry-making,  and  beg  to  be  a  voice- 
less listener." 

"  Then  strive  to  look  more  cheerful ! "  she 
flashed  out  angrily.  "  Ma  foi  !  You're  like  a 
vulture  seated  on  one's  bed-post — beak  and 
claws!"  She  snapped  her  ringers  tauntingly. 
"  Pish  /  .  .  Be  a  joyful  bird ;  else  .  .  .  spread 
your  gloomy  pinions  .  .  .  and  fly  home  to  your 
nest." 

She  flung  back  her  head  and  laughed ;  the 
57 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

company  joined  her  boisterously,  but  the  doctor 
cursed  between  his  strong,  clenched  teeth — 
cursed  bitterly,  and  was  once  more  silent. 

"  Come,  my  children,"  Le  Corbeau  cried,  "  we 
will  soothe  his  sorrowing  spirit  with  the  balm  of 
music.  Are  you  ready?  " 

"  All  ready ! "  they  answered  joyously. 

"  Then  join  me  in  the  chorus." 

She  struck  a  few  swift  chords,  and  sang  of  the 
little  Picador,  a  merry  tune,  with  a  quaint, 
abandoned  swing,  but  a  touch  of  pathos  in  its 
haunting  melody. 

"  The  poor  little  Picador  loved  a  maid, 

But,  alas  for  the  Picador's  lot ! 
This  maid,  so  sly,  'had  fish  to  fry,' 

Which  related  to  the  Picador  not. 
He  told  his  tale  where  the  moonlight  pale 

Her  long  love-lances  shot, 
But  she  laughed  to  scorn  her  lover  lorn, 

For  she  loved  the  little  Picador  not." 

Here  the  guests  joined  hands,  and  forming  a 
circling  chain,  danced  happily  round  their 
chosen  queen,  as  they  sang  the  chorus : 

"  Dear  little  Picador — queer  little  Picador — 

Tears  are  soon  forgot ; 
Frail  little  Picador — pale  little  Picador — 
She  loved  the  little  Picador  not." 
58 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


Le  Corbeau  glanced  toward  Jardin,  smiled, 
and  again  took  up  the  melody: 

"  The  poor  little  Picador  picked  guitars, 

Though  the  weather  was  intensely  hot, 
But  he  ne'er  once  played  to  suit  that  maid, 

For  she  loved  the  little  Picador  not. 
So  he's  hied  him,  then,  to  a  fierce  bull's  pen — 

The  animal  came  at  a  trot — 
And  the  maiden  sighed  as  her  lover  died, 

Though  she  loved  the  little  Picador  not." 

CHORUS  : 

"  Bad  little  Picador— mad  little  Picador— 

For  love,  his  death-wound  got ; 
Bold  little  Picador— cold  little  Picador- 
She  loved  the  little  Picador  not. 

"  The  poor  little  Picador  lies  at  rest 

In  the  graveyard's  grassy  plot, 
And  the  maiden  wept  for  the  swain  who  slept, 

Though  she  loved  the  little  Picador  not. 
She  digged  a  grave  for  her  Picador  brave, 

And  hastened  from  the  lonely  spot, 
Then  went  her  way,  and  was  married  that  day, 

For  she  loved  the  little  Picador  not. 

CHORUS: 

"  Sleep,  little  Picador— deep,  little  Picador— 

Yours  is  the  ordinary  lot, 
For  a  maiden's  will  is  a  bitter,  bitter  pill, 
When  she  loves  a  little  Picador  not" 


CHAPTER    V 

WHEN  the  song  was  finished  and  the  noisy 
applause  had  ceased,  they  besought  her  to  sing 
again,  but  she  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 
"  No,  no,  I  have  sung  enough."  And  when 
they  urged  her  still,  she  cut  them  short.  "  Have 
done ! "  she  cried  impatiently.  "  There — that 
ends  it ! "  then  added  in  a  gentler  tone :  "  Ah, 
by  the  way,  I  heard  the  daintiest  little  air  yes- 
terday, and  could  not  rest  until  I  learned  it. 
Shall  I  play  it  for  you?  Yes?  .  .  .  Then  listen 
to  its  opening  chords — half  prayer,  half  hunger- 
ing love,  as  though  a  tempted  nun  had  written  it." 

She  touched  her  strings  in  a  plaintive  melody, 
which  might  indeed  have  stolen  from  some 
heart  of  ashes,  when  stirred  by  the  breath  of  its 
smouldering  spark ;  and  as  she  played,  the  plead- 
ing measure,  like  a  phantom  memory,  seemed 
calling  to  her  inner  consciousness,  each  note  a 
footstep  leading  her  away — beyond  the  glint 
and  glitter  of  her  own  salon  with  its  heated  air, 

its  lights  and  laughter — to  a  fairer  world  out- 

60 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

side ;  to  the  garden  of  peace  and  purity,  wherein 
no  poppy  flower  might  bloom,  and  its  gate  was 
barred  by  the  figure  of  a  priest — a  tall,  pale 
priest,  who  looked  before  him  silently  .  .  .  and 
waited. 

The  music  ceased ;  Le  Corbeau  sat  in  reverie, 
her  strange  eyes  fixed  on  nothingness,  her  red 
lips  parted,  while  her  full  white  bosom  rose  and 
fell  in  quickened  respiration;  then  a  shout  of 
laughter,  like  a  jarring  discord,  broke  harshly 
upon  her  thought,  dragging  her  back  to  the 
coarse  reality  of  life  and  the  grating  mirth  of  her 
shallow-souled  companions. 

Raymond  bowed  obsequiously  before  her 
throne.  "  We  are  perishing  with  curiosity,"  he 
said.  "In  the  name  of  pity,  save  our  lives." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  answered  simply. 

" So  we  supposed ;  but  of  what? " 

"  To-day  ...  I  have  seen  the  strangest  sight 
in  Paris." 

"You're  indeed  to  be  envied,"  lisped  Du- 
chant ;  "  yet,  I  beg  you,  share  the  wonder  with 
your  friends  less  fortunate." 

Le  Corbeau  paused,  and  once  more  answered 

simply : 

61 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


"  I  have  seen  ...  a  man." 

Again  her  guests  laughed  harshly,  and  the 
poet  asked  with  a  vapid  grin :  "And  is  the  sight 
of  a  man  so  truly  wonderful  that  the  queen  of 
love  sits  dreaming  like  a  sphinx? " 

She  turned  upon  him  irritably,  a  dash  of  scorn 
in  her  barbed  reply : 

"  Oh,  I  mean  a  real  man ;  not  such  men  as — 
pardon  me — as  you ! " 

"  Mercy,  O  queen ! "  begged  the  hard-hit  poet, 
amid  the  noisy  jests  of  his  jeering  friends ;  but 
the  queen  continued  earnestly : 

"  Not  such  men  as  the  King  of  France  is 
pleased  to  call  his  courtiers,  whose  swords  are 
marks  of  office  and  not  of  valour — men  with  a 
million  francs  and  as  many  vices,  whose  days 
and  nights  are  shuffled  in  a  pointless  game  of 
idleness.  No !  I  speak  of  a  man  with  a  pur- 
pose in  life — with  courage  to  back  his  earnest 
precepts — a  man  who  fights  his  battles  .  .  .  and 
wins!" 

Jardin  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  indolence. 
"And  may  I  ask,"  he  drawled,  "who  is  this 
god?" 

"A  priest." 

62 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Again  their  laughter  rose,  louder,  coarser 
than  before,  and  a  volley  of  waggish  wit 
was  forthwith  launched  by  the  mocking  re- 
vellers. 

"  Hear  her,  St.  Sebastian ! "  the  poet  cried. 
'  The  queen  of  love  will  take  the  veil !  " 

"Has  madame  lingered  at  confession?" 
jeered  La  Rose. 

"  Parbleu  !  The  poor  confessor  has  my  sym- 
pathy unbounded,"  tittered  Violette,  while  Ray- 
mond crossed  his  hands  and  called  out  sol- 
emnly: 

"  Hail  to  the  mother  superior !  I  shall  say 
one  thousand  aves,  and  buy  a  waxen  candle  as 
large  as  my  astonishment." 

The  doctor  kept  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  but 
muttered  audibly : 

"  I  fear  one  nunnery  is  damned — from  chapel 
to  refectory." 

"Messieurs!  ..."  cried  Le Corbeau sharply, 
half  rising  in  her  seat,  while  a  glow  of  hot  re- 
sentment flushed  her  cheeks,  "  Messieurs !  .  .  . 
your  merriment  is  most  ill-timed — ill-placed— 
yet  it  only  draws  a  sharper  line  between  you  .  .  . 
and  the  priest  whom  I  called  a  man ! " 

63 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Your  pardon,"  begged  Raymond  humbly. 
"Are  you,  indeed,  in  earnest?" 

"  For  once  in  my  life — yes.  Listen !  .  .  .  I 
stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  Rue  St.  Denis  to 
leave  a  few  directions  with  M.  Dreux,  who 
makes  my  gowns ;  and  as  I  waited  on  his  bal- 
cony who  should  stalk  forth  from  the  jeweller's 
across  the  way  but  the  Marquis  Dubris.  Ray- 
mond, you  know  the  toad — fat  eyes,  a  puffy, 
purple  face — a  thing  that  French  nobility  calls 
a  man." 

"  Why,  yes,"  grinned  Raymond,  "  I  know  the 
animal.  He  walks  as  though  the  streets  of 
Paris  were  an  insult  to  his  lordly  boots;  he 
hates  the  rabble  as  he  loves  his  pride,  and 
has  a  temper  which  madame  herself  might 
envy." 

Le  Corbeau  smiled. 

"Yes,  that  is  he.  Well,  the  streets  were 
greatly  crowded,  owing  to  the  passing  of  the 
king  and  his  fawning  popinjay,  the  Due  de  la 
Fere ;  and  as  the  marquis  strode  toward  his  car- 
riage a  dirt-stained  beggar  ran  by  accident  into 
his  noble  paunch.  With  a  curse  the  marquis 

raised  his  ivory  cane  and  struck  the  poor  wretch 

64 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

across  the  face,  leaving  a  bloody  gash  from  chin 
to  cheekbone." 

"  Shame ! "  cried  La  Rose,  while  a  sympathetic 
murmur  echoed  among  the  listeners  and  sank 
to  stillness  as  Le  Corbeau  told  her  story  with 
increasing  wrath : 

"  The  canaille  hissed  and  hooted,  but  it  only 
maddened  him  the  more.  Again  the  cane  was 
raised  .  .  .  when  a  passing  priest  appeared, 
caught  the  uplifted  arm,  and  took  away  the 
weapon  as  one  might  take  a  rattle  from  a 
child." 

"  Delightful ! "  Raymond  laughed.  "  And  the 
marquis?" 

"  Bursting  with  passion,  turned  and  drew  his 
sword." 

"  The  blackguard ! "  gasped  Duchant.  "  And 
then,  madame  ? " 

"  And  then — the  marquis  bellowed  in  his  fury, 
glared  at  the  priest  with  murder  in  his  soul,  and 
ordered  him  aside.  The  priest  moved  not,  nor 
shrank  from  man  or  steel.  .  .  .  He  watched  .  .  . 
and  blocked  the  way.  The  marquis  cursed  him 
with  a  name  unspeakable,  leaped  back,  and 
raised  his  sword-arm  for  a  thrust." 
5  65 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


" Mon  Dieu !  Did  he  strike?"  gasped  La 
Rose  in  horror. 

Le  Corbeau  paid  no  heed,  but  continued 
slowly,  her  great  eyes  glowing  with  suppressed 
excitement,  her  low  voice  quivering  in  uncon- 
scious reverence,  for  again,  in  memory,  she 
gripped  the  railing  of  the  balcony  and  watched 
in  wonder  while  her  panting  heart  stood 
still: 

"  There  came  a  look  in  the  calm  white  face 
of  the  waiting  priest  which  never  before  have  I 
seen  on  the  face  of  man — a  look  of  fearlessness 
and  contempt — and  what  I  saw  Dubris  saw  too, 
for  his  sword-point  paused  as  it  almost  touched 
the  unguarded  breast,  and  then  sank  slowly  to 
the  ground.  .  .  .  The  father  bent  and  raised  the 
fainting  beggar  in  his  arms,  turned,  stretched 
forth  his  hand,  and  pointed  a  finger  at  Dubris. 
What  he  said  I  could  not  hear,  but  this  I  know : 
the  great  Dubris — this  mighty  lord  of  France 
— trembling  like  a  frightened  cur,  turned  and 
slunk  into  his  carriage  .  .  .  even  as  the  stricken 
beggar  had  crept  into  the  gutter.  .  .  .  Dieu! 
.  .  .  I  have  seen  a  man  /" 

For  a  lingering  moment  silence  rested  on  the 
66 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

company,  then  suddenly  gave  place  to  a  flutter 
of  excitement. 

"  Wonderful ! "  cried  one. 

"  Who  is  he  ? "  asked  another. 

"  I  know  not.     I  saw  him  first  to-day." 

"  But  tell  us  more,"  urged  Violette.  "  What 
was  the  father  like? " 

Le  Corbeau  smiled  in  answer,  and  her  eyes 
grew  soft  and  glowing: 

"  Straight  as  an  ash-wood  lance — an  athlete's 
form.  .  .  .  As  handsome  as  a  god  .  .  .  and 
young ! " 

A  woman  sighed;  the  gentlemen,  with  ele- 
vated brows,  nudged  one  another  stealthily,  but 
held  their  peace;  Jardin,  who,  throughout  the 
narrative  sat  thinking  deeply,  of  a  sudden 
clenched  his  fist  and  struck  it  sharply  on  the 
arm  of  his  cushioned  chair,  then  turning,  said 
with  his  lazy  smile : 

"  Pardon,  madame.     I  know  the  man.' 

"You  know  him!" 

Le  Corbeau  stepped  quickly  from  her  throne, 
and  the  company,  with  eager  questionings,  sur- 
rounded the  doctor's  chair. 

"  Who  is  he  ?    Come,  Monsieur— his  name— 
6; 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

his  history?  Tell  us,"  they  begged  in  interest 
born  of  human  curiosity.  The  doctor  waited 
until  order  was  restored,  and  answered  care- 
lessly : 

"  Oh,  there  is  little,  after  all,  which  one  may 
know  of  priests,  and  smaller  profit  in  the  knowl- 
edge once  acquired.  This  one,  amongst  his 
order,  is  known  as  '  Brother  Claudien  ' ;  but  by 
the  poor  of  Paris  he  is  called  '  the  Good  Samar- 
itan.'" 

"  And  worthy  of  the  title,"  Le  Corbeau  mur- 
mured musingly.  "  Well,  what  more? " 

"  Little,  relatively  speaking.  I  saw  him  but 
once,  at  his  cloister  on  the  city's  outskirts,  where 
he  summoned  me  to  see  a  patient — an  afflicted 
brother  whose  zealous  precepts  had  outrun  dis- 
cretion, and  who,  therefore,  took  a  vow  of 
silence  till  his  broken  jaw  was  healed.  I  set 
it." 

"  A  pest  upon  the  patient ! "  said  Le  Corbeau 
pettishly.  "  What  of  Brother  Claudien  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know  him  further  than  by  sight," 
the  doctor  answered  lazily,  "  and  merely  marked 
him  as  a  splendid  specimen  of  manhood — in 

physique,  I  mean — a  soldier  gone  to  waste — a 

63 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

wrestler  hidden  in  a  cassock.  However,  I  have 
heard  of  him  repeatedly ;  he  belongs  to  one  of 
the  branches  of  the  Order  of  St.  Dominic,  and 
is  neither  priest  nor  friar,  but  a  queer  melange 
of  both,  his  sheep-fold  being  known  as  '  The 
Brotherhood  of  the  House  of  Peace.'  A  curious 
sect,  these  fellows,  who  freely  shuffle  in  the 
worldly  pack,  yet  are  bound  by  the  strictest 
vows  of  celibacy." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  La  Rose.  "  They  can  never 
marry." 

"No,"  said  Jardin;  "it  is,  I  believe,  among 
their  most  sacred  pledges." 

"Oh,  sages  most  profound!"  Raymond  ob- 
served with  mock  solemnity.  "  I  think  I  will 
join  their  order." 

"Silence,  Raymond!"  said  Le  Corbeau 
sharply.  "  Go  on,  Jardin." 

The  doctor  paused  to  smile  at  his  friend's  ir- 
reverence and  resumed : 

"  A  corner  of  their  cloister  provides  a  shelter 
for  the  sick  and  homeless,  and  abroad  the  toil- 
ers practise  charity,  working  daily  in  the  slums 
of  Paris;  but  as  to  Brother  Claudien,  there  is 

little  more  to  tell  you— except,  indeed,  an  unim- 

69 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


portant  matter  which  I  learned  one  day  by  ac- 
cident." 

"And  that?" 

"  Um — merely  the  name  he  bore  before  his 
advent  into  clothes  of  sacerdotal  cut." 

"Tell  me,"  Le  Corbeau  urged  in  breathless 
interest. 

The  doctor  paused,  then  with  a  slight,  pecu- 
liar hardening  of  the  lips,  said  slowly: 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  disclose  so  secret  a 
matter.  His  name  is  Leon  la  Valiere  ...  a 
fine  old  stock  .  .  .  the  son  of  a  courtly  gentle- 
man .  .  .  and  is  said  to  be  a  most  unusual 
man."  The  doctor  rose  and  added  lightly: 
"  But  then,  you  know,  he  comes  from  a  most 
unusual  family.  ...  His  sister  has  recently  be- 
come the  Duchesse  de  la  Fere." 

"WHAT!" 

Le  Corbeau  faced  him,  whitening  to  the  lips. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  have  not  heard? "  the  doc- 
tor asked  in  half-concealed  amusement.  "  I  cry 
your  pardon." 

Jardin  had  led  up  craftily  to  his  point.  He 
knew  the  weak  spot  hidden  in  Le  Corbeau's 

armor,  and  had  touched  her  on  the  raw. 

70 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said,  as  she  bit  her  lip,  "  if 
this  be  a  jest,  it  fails  most  signally  in  amusing 
me." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  disclaimed,  "  I  speak 
in  sober  earnest;"  then  to  the  company  he 
added  smilingly:  "  Believe  me,  ladies,  it  is  quite 
a  fascinating  story.  The  Due  de  la  Fere  " — here 
he  turned  to  Le  Corbeau  and  said  with  his  lazy 
drawl,  "  I  believe  you  knew  him  slightly." 

"  Why  do  you  taunt  me  ? "  she  flashed  back 
angrily.  "  You  know  he  was  my  lover,  and  that 
he  left  me — for  whom  I  know  not,  nor  care.  .  .  . 
Well,  the  rest  of  your  fascinating  story ! " 

She  crossed  the  room  and  testily  flung  herself 
upon  the  lounge,  watching  Jardin  with  a  swiftly 
rising  temper;  while  the  doctor,  as  though  un- 
conscious of  the  fires  he  lit,  addressed  the  com- 
pany in  the  dry,  half-serious,  half-bantering  tone 
of  a  raconteur  who  thoroughly  enjoys  his  story : 

"  The  Due  de  la  Fere,  as  you  doubtless  know, 
was  the  wildest  blade  in  Paris,  with  far  more 
vices  than  this  seasoned  coterie  rolled  into  one 
black  pill,  del !  What  an  adjunct  to  the  court 
of  Lucifer.  For  several  years,  'tis  said,  the  due 
was  a  sort  of  marionette  for  the  pleasure  of  a 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


friend  " — here  the  doctor  waved  his  hand  signifi- 
cantly— "  she  to  pull  the  string,  while  the  due 
danced  nimbly  to  such  mad  measures  as  her 
fertile  brain  invented  for  his  heels.  But  sud- 
denly, two  months  ago,  the  due  reformed,  for- 
swearing women,  wine,  and  song — snapped  his 
patrician  fingers  beneath  the  charmer's  dainty 
nose,  and  then — and  then,  what  think  you?" 

"What?"  asked  La  Rose. 

"  Married ! "  The  doctor  laughed.  "  Married 
a  yellow-haired  maiden  with  soulful  eyes,  who 
goes  to  mass  three  times  a  week  .  .  .  and  takes 
her  husband  with  her ! " 

Again  the  doctor  laughed,  not  coarsely,  but 
long  and  heartily,  as  though  the  moral  reforma- 
tion of  the  due  were  a  subject  for  keenest  hu- 
mour. Le  Corbeau  winced,  but  remained  in- 
active, while  those  who  watched  her  marvelled 
alike  at  the  doctor's  rash  audacity  and  the  start- 
ling absence  of  a  furious  outburst  from  the 
poppy  flower;  for  her  tongue  of  flame  was  wont 
to  sweep  away  all  barriers  opposed  to  her  pas- 
sionate, despotic  will.  And  though  Le  Cor- 
beau's  temper  boiled  hotly  against  Jardin,  still 

his  sudden  change  of  front  for  the  moment  stag- 

72 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

gered  her;  a  man  who, heretofore, had  been  like 
clay  in  the  moulder's  hands,  now  daring  to  flout 
her  openly  and  hold  up  her  wounded  pride  as  a 
target  for  Parthian  shafts  of  vulgar  jesting.  The 
shafts  sank  deep ;  Le  Corbeau  rose  and  crossed 
to  where  her  arch-tormentor  stood,  rudely  brush- 
ing La  Rose  aside  in  her  angry  haste. 

"  Enough  of  this ! "  she  cried.  "  You  weary 
me!" 

"  So  said  the  due,  if  I  remember  right,"  re- 
turned Jardin,  with  an  irritating  smile. 

She  raised  her  hand  to  strike  him,  dropped  it 
to  her  side,  and  then,  with  a  shrug,  went  back 
to  her  seat  again  and  fanned  herself  excitedly. 
La  Rose  smoothed  out  the  rumpled  lace  upon 
her  shoulder,  and  turning  to  Jardin  said  sweetly: 

"  I  pray  you  go  on,  Monsieur,  with  the  story 
of  the  due ;  it  is  really  quite  refreshing." 

Le  Corbeau's  dark  eyes  glittered  dangerously 
as  she  shot  her  glance  toward  La  Rose,  and  a 
dull  flush  mounted  slowly  to  her  temples.  The 
doctor  rubbed  his  hands  and  again  took  up  the 
thread  of  his  interrupted  narrative. 

"  It  seems,"  he  said,  then  paused  and  took  a 
pinch  of  snuff,  "  it  seems  that  this  little  saint, 

73 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Cecile  la  Valiere,  has  wrought  a  miracle,  for,  lo ! 
she  has  taken  France's  greatest  sinner  and  well- 
nigh  canonized  him.  The  due,  'tis  whispered,  is 
now  a  very  proper  gentleman,  and  so,  my 
friends,  you  will  readily  perceive  that  Cecile 
succeeded  where  even  Le  Corbeau  failed." 

"  The  insolent ! "  Le  Corbeau  gasped,  while 
Raymond  plucked  his  neighbor's  sleeve  and 
whispered  slyly :  "  I  think  that  Satan  is  prick- 
ing up  his  ears.  I  mark  the  scent  of  sulphur." 

The  doctor's  nose  seemed  far  less  sensitive, 
for  he  faced  his  hostess  with  an  air  of  deep  com- 
miseration :  "  I  fear,  madame,  that  you  have  a 
formidable  rival  in  the  dainty  duchesse ;  .  .  .  but 
then,  as  they  say,  her  beauty  drives  the  nail  .  .  . 
and  her  virtue  clinches  it." 

Le  Corbeau  bit  her  lip  till  the  toothprints 
showed  upon  the  flesh,  but  answered  nothing. 
Jardin  went  on  remorselessly: 

"  I  have  never  fully  understood  why  you  failed 
to  hold  the  due.  I  grant  your  power  over  men 
—some  men — but  I  swear  you  could  never  have 
cut  a  saint  from  the  cloth  of  poor  La  Fere." 

"No,"  she  retorted  shortly,  "and  I  never 
tried.  It  seems  that  I  make  demons  of  saints, 

74 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

but  never  saints  of  any  sort.    The  pattern  is 
out  of  style,  and  saints  are  tedious." 

"  Y-e-s,"  he  admitted,  with  a  slow,  depreciat- 
ing shrug, "  y-e-s — sometimes ;  and  yet  .  .  .  with 
all  your  alluring  witchery,  there  are  men  in  Paris 
with  whom  you  would  be  ...  as  a  reed  in  the 
wind." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  in  resentful  fury, 
goaded  at  last  beyond  forbearance  by  his  scoff- 
ing tone. 

"  No ! "  she  cried.  "  There  is  not  a  man  in 
Paris — no,  nor  in  all  of  France — whom  I  could 
not  bend  to  the  force  of  will !  A  fig  for  your 
due,  the  dancing  marionette  who  broke  his 
string  in  weariness!  Aye,  but  he  danced  my 
measure,"  she  hissed  exultantly,  "and  would 
dance  it  still — as  you  have  footed  it,  Monsieur 
— did  I  beckon  with  a  finger.  No,  Jardin,  I  tell 
you,  no !  You  men  are  all  alike — your  boasted 
honour  melts  like  wax  beneath  a  woman's  touch. 
All — all  alike,  and  where  I  choose  ...  I  con- 
quer." 

"  Ah  ?     And  by  what  means ?  " 

'  That  is  my  affair.     I  conquer  1 " 

"  Hmp ! "  the  doctor  sniffed  and  toyed  with 
75 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

his  silver  snuff-box.  "  I  remain,  perforce,  a 
sceptic.  There  was  once  a  captive  fox — so  runs 
the  tale — who  bragged  among  his  fellows  that 
did  he  choose  he  could  spring  upon  the  moon. 
'Wonderful! '  observed  a  friend.  'I  have  often 
marked  your  rare  agility,  and  have  wondered 
much  why  you  did  not  leap  from  the  shallow  pit 
which  holds  you  prisoner.'  '  Fool ! '  sneered  the 
fox,  'I  never  jump  for  the  benefit  of  doubters.' " 

This  fable,  made  to  hand,  was  received  by  the 
listening  guests  with  shouts  of  laughter,  and  Le 
Corbeau,  stung  to  unreasoning  passion,  played 
easily  into  the  doctor's  net. 

"  Monsieur  Jardin,"  she  flashed  in  withering 
scorn,  "  I  know  not  what  your  object  is  in  taunt- 
ing me — and  care  not — but  what  you  dare  in 
ridicule  I  dare  in  earnest.  Name  me  a  man  in 
France — name  whom  you  will — and  if  I  fail  to 
win  him  in  one  full  month,  I  will  kneel  at  the 
feet  of  your  milk-faced  duchesse  and  acknowl- 
edge her  my  superior." 

"  Done ! "  the  doctor  cried.  "  I  make  you  a 
wager.  I  will  name  you  a  man  in  Paris,  and 
bet  five  hundred  thousand  francs  that  your 

charms  will  fail — fail  utterly." 

76 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Five  hundred  thousand  francs  against 
what?"  she  sneered. 

He  leaned  toward  her  and  answered  in  an  un- 
dertone :  "  Yourself  ...  as  my " 

She  cut  him  short  with  a  scornful  laugh,  and 
shuddered. 

"Oh,  what  a  fate!  ...  But  I  accept  it— 
pardi,  even  that !  I  may  not  reach  the  moon, 
Monsieur,  but  at  least  I'll  leave  one  scoffer  in 
the  pit."  She  turned  her  back  upon  him  and 
faced  the  company:  "Come,  fill  your  glasses, 
and  I'll  toast  his  champion  in  a  pledge  to  win 
or  lose ! " 

In  a  moment  wine  was  poured  and  the  com- 
pany gathered  closely  round  the  central  figures. 
Le  Corbeau  raised  her  glass,  surveyed  Jardin 
defiantly,  and  called  aloud : 

"  The  champion !    Who  is  he  ? " 

The  doctor  paused,  then  answered  with  his 
hard,  cold  smile : 

"Leon  la  Valiere,  .  .  .  the  Good  Samar- 
itan !  " 

A  gasp  of  abhorrence  burst  from  the  startled 
listeners  as  the  doctor's  scoffing  lips  profaned 
the  priest ;  but  Le  Corbeau  stood  unmoved,  save 

77 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

that  her  cheek  grew  pale,  and  a  trickling  stream 
of  wine  was  spilled  from  her  trembling  glass, 
and  dribbled  down  her  white,  uplifted  arm.  She 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  Jardin  in  a  keen,  unflinch- 
ing gaze  of  loathing  and  contempt,  then  slowly, 
slowly  the  glass  was  lowered  and  flung  with  a 
splintering  crash  at  the  tempter's  feet. 

"  Monsieur  .  .  .  you  have  your  answer.  .  .  . 
I  decline!" 

"  JBrava!"  applauded  Raymond,  and  a  mur- 
mur of  approval  rippled  round  the  circle  of 
spectators.  The  doctor  bowed  and  softly  clapped 
his  hands : 

"Well  acted,  Corbeau — well  acted,  on  my 
soul!" 

"  What  mean  you? " 

"A  simple  compliment  to  madame's  art. 
Where  Le  Corbeau  fails  .  .  .  Le  Corbeau 's 
failure  is  at  least  dramatic." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  be  satirical,  Monsieur." 

"  I  humbly  deny  the  charge.  My  champion 
is  beyond  your  reach.  Aye,  even  yours,  Cor- 
beau. Madame  is  too  intelligent  to  play  a  game 
when  she's  sure  to  lose.  Madame  is  mighty, 
but,  alas !  her  powers  are  limited." 

78 


She  answered  coldly:  "  'Tis  not  a  question  of 
my  power,  but  of  my  will." 

"  Had  madame  the  power,  she  would  find  the 
will,"  the  doctor  retorted  sharply;  then  drop- 
ping once  more  into  his  slow,  derisive  drawl, 
said  mockingly :  "  Mon  Dieu  !  how  high  a  fox 
can  jump ! " 

"Stop!"  she  commanded  angrily.  "I've 
heard  enough !  /  will  not !  " 

She  turned  on  her  heel  to  leave  the  room,  and 
the  doctor  saw  his  victim  slipping  from  his  grasp. 
He  squared  his  jaw,  and  in  one  last  effort  to 
stab  her  vanity,  called  after  her: 

"  A  moment,  madame,  I  pray  you."  And  as 
she  paused  on  the  threshold  of  her  door,  he 
sipped  his  wine  and  addressed  the  company: 
"  The  queen  of  love  has  refused  my  wager. 
Why?  Parbleu,  'tis  her  own  affair.  .  .  .  But, 
since  she  shuns  the  risk,  my  offer  still  stands 
open  to  other  takers — one  of  equal  wit  and 
charm,  and  whose  feather  is  not  so  white.  Per- 
haps La  Rose  might  win  .  .  .  where  Le  Cor- 
beau  loses." 

"  Jardin  !" 

Shrill,  sharp,  like  the  cry  of  a  wounded  ani- 
79 


mal,  maddened  with  rage  and  agony,  his  name 
seemed  wrenched  from  Le  Corbeau's  white, 
drawn  lips ;  her  splendid  eyes  blazed  vengef ully, 
and  her  lithe  form  swayed  and  crouched  as  the 
tiger  crouches  for  his  kill. 

"Pouf/"  said  Jardin,  and  turned  his  back 
upon  her  in  lazy  insolence.  "  Well,  my  pretty 
one,"  he  asked  La  Rose,  in  his  lagging  drawl, 
"  what  say  you  to  my  wager?  Come ! " 

And  La  Rose,  the  shallow  butterfly,  half  in 
flattered  vanity,  half  in  spite  toward  a  rival, 
shook  her  giddy  head  and  simpered  in  reply : 

"  No,  no,  Monsieur ;  your  hook  is  baited  with 
a  tempting  worm,  at  which  I  might  snap,  and 
eagerly ;  but  the  Good  Samaritan  is  a  holy  man, 
and  sooner  would  I  lose  my  tongue  than  bring 
harm  to  him." 

Le  Corbeau  laughed  derisively,  and  in  an  in- 
stant faced  La  Rose  with  all  the  pent-up  venom 
of  her  soul,  turning  from  the  man  who  had 
roused  her  ire  to  the  woman  who  stung  her 
pride  with  thin-veiled  mockery ;  and  when  she 
spoke,  her  slow  voice,  tremulous  with  scorn,  bit 
like  a  whip-lash  on  a  naked  breast : 

"  And  do  you  dream  that  the  holy  man  has 
80 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

aught  to  fear  from  you  ?  .  .  .  Could  peerless  La 
Rose — with  all  her  countless  charms — cause  the 
good  priest  to  forget  one  single  bead  upon  his 
rosary?" 

La  Rose  flushed  fiery  red,  then  paled  again, 
and  asked  defiantly: 

"  Could  Madame  le  Corbeau?  " 

"  I  could ! "  she  stormed.  "  By  the  splendor 
of  heaven,  did  I. choose,  I'd  make  him  trample 
on  his  rosary — forget  his  faith — his  cross — his 
all  save  me."  She  wheeled  upon  Jardin  and 
struck  him  sharply  on  the  cheek  with  the  back 
of  her  jewelled  hand.  "  Monsieur  Jardin  .  .  . 
you  have  dared  to  cross  your  sword  with  mine 
.  .  .  and  though  I  hold  you  in  contempt  .  .  . 
still  I  am  minded  to  see  the  end  of  your  coward's 
game." 

"  If  you  can,  madame,"  he  retorted  coolly. 

"  I  can  and " 

"Madame!  Madame!"  broke  in  La  Rose 
imploringly.  "I  beg  you  not!  Tis  wicked! 
Wicked!" 

"I  care  not!" 

The  guests  sprang  forward  eagerly,  some 
pleading  with  Jardin,  while  others  sought  to 
6  81 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

soothe  the  maddened  woman's  rage.  "  A  pest 
on  you,  Monsieur,  to  anger  her! "  frowned  Vio- 
lette.  Another  took  Le  Corbeau's  arm  and  said 
entreatingly :  "Think,  madame,  he  is  a  godly 
man ;  think,  think,  I  beg  you." 

"  Madame  ...  in  the  name  of  mercy ! " 
sobbed  La  Rose. 

"  I  tell  you,  I  care  not ! "  Le  Corbeau  snarled, 
and  when  her  friends,  with  pleading  voices, 
pressed  closely  round  her,  she  raised  her  arms 
and  struck  out  wickedly,  fiercely,  madly,  sweep- 
ing them  aside. 

"  Stop ! "  she  shrilled.  "  What  care  I  for  this 
whining  priest — the  idol  of  the  poor?"  and  she 
laughed  hysterically.  "The  Good  Samaritan! 
.  .  .  Bah !  ...  Is  he  not  a  man — a  man  though 
he  wears  a  cloak  and  cowl  ?  ...  If  I  choose  to 
win  him — man  or  monk — I'll  win  him  still!" 

La  Rose  sank  down  upon  her  knees  with  a 
whimpering  cry  of  terror,  but  the  doctor  smiled 
and  tossed  his  glove  at  Le  Corbeau's  feet.  She 
stooped — for  an  instant  paused — then  snatching 
up  his  gage,  she  rose  to  her  splendid  height  and 
faced  him  in  all  the  glory  of  her  devilish  beauty. 

"  Monsieur  Jardin !"  .  .  .  Her  voice  rang  out, 
82 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


a  shrill-tongued  tocsin  of  unholy  exultation: 
"  Monsieur  Jardin !  .  .  .  I  warn  you  ...  I  will 
win!  .  .  .  Win  with  all  the  world  against  me 
.  .  .  win  .  .  .  though  I  set  my  heel  upon  his 
cross  and  drag  him  from  the  altar  of  his  God ! " 
The  guests  shrank  from  her  silently,  till  the 
hush  was  broken  by  a  painted  woman  weeping 
bitterly. 


CHAPTER    VI 

WHEN  Le  Corbeau  woke  next  morning,  a 
flood  of  sunlight  streamed  through  the  curtains 
of  her  bed,  causing  her  eyes  to  blink  distress- 
fully ;  but  keener  still,  a  flood  of  memory  stung 
her  awakened  conscience — harsh,  pitiless  as  the 
jailer's  fist  that  rouses  a  slumbering  captive  by 
a  blow.  What  madness  had  she  done  which 
seemed  so  monstrous  in  the  glaring  light  of  day  ? 
What  demon's  prompting  stirred  her  soul  to 
such  an  unholy  test  of  woman's  power?  And 
the  priest — Grand  Dieu  /  .  .  .  the  priest ! 

Bitterly  she  cursed  her  folly  in  blundering 
blindly  into  a  trap,  but  far  more  bitter  still  her 
hot  resentment  raged  against  Jardin.  He  who 
had  roused  a  sleeping  devil  in  her  blood,  hoist- 
ing her  pride  with  his  lever  of  scoffing  ridicule 
to  the  tottering  height  of  passionate  unreason. 
And  when  she  fell  she  would  see  his  haunting 
smile,  a  smile  that  burned  like  acid  in  an  open 

wound,  and  hear  him  murmur  in  a  lazy,  mock- 

84 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

ing  drawl :  "  Pray,  jump  again,  my  pretty  fox ; 
the  moon  swims  low  to-night,  and  you  only 
missed  it  by  a  thousand  leagues.  Encore  !  " 

Oh,  but  he  should  drink  the  lees  of  peni- 
tence !  The  fires  of  hatred  flickered  in  her  half- 
closed  eyes,  and  her  white  teeth  shut  with  a 
sharp,  vindictive  snap.  What  recked  a  priest, 
so  long  as  she  struck  Jardin — struck  him  in  mid- 
flight  and  broke  his  wings?  And  yet — ah,  bet- 
ter a  hundred  pangs  of  deep  humility  than  a 
cruel  stab  to  the  Good  Samaritan ! 

She  flung  her  coverings  aside  and  rose  in  the 
impulse  of  her  pitying  resolve.  She  would  go 
to  Jardin  to-day— at  once — appeal  to  his  gener- 
osity, and  make  an  end  to  the  terms  of  his  evil 
wager.  Surely  he,  too,  must  feel  the  baseness 
of  his  act.  He  would  hail  her  coming  with  a 
lightened  conscience  and  join  her  in  a  truce  to 
the  petty  spites  which  marred  theirk  peace  and 
set  their  paths  with  thorns.  She  would  even 
ask  to  keep  his  glove — no  longer  a  gage  of  open 
war  between  them,  but  a  pledge  to  amity  and  ac- 
cordant kindliness. 

She  summoned  her  maid  and  in  feverish  haste 
began  her  toilet,  sipped  at  a  cup  of  chocolate, 

85 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

and  gave  orders  that  her  carriage  wait  in  half  an 
hour. 

"Rue  St.  Honore  f"  she  called  as  she  sprang 
into  her  seat.  "  Stop  at  the  door  of  my  physi- 
cian. Drive  quickly,  Adolphe;  to-day  I  would 
go  in  haste." 

The  driver  cracked  his  whip,  and  Le  Corbeau, 
leaning  back  among  her  cushions,  was  whirled 
through  the  crowded  thoroughfares  till  they 
reached  the  fashionable  quarter  and  the  street 
in  which  the  doctor  lived ;  and  as  her  wheels 
rasped  sharply  against  the  curb,  Jardin  himself 
stood  bowing  at  her  carriage  window,  hat  in 
hand. 

"Bon  jour,  madame !  I  am  honoured  far 
above  my  merits.  Ma  foil"  he  drawled, 
"what  hope  for  a  sinner's  vanity  when  the 
mountain  seeks  Mohammed?" 

"  Jardin,"  she  said  impulsively,  "  I  have  come 
to  say " 

She  paused  and  looked  him  in  the  eye.  No 
spark  of  contrition  there;  but  in  its  place  a 
flickering  twinkle  of  amusement — a  ghostly  glint 
of  humorous  disdain.  His  face  was  placid,  till 

the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched  restively  and 

86 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

curled  into  a  smile — that  maddening  smile — 
more  eloquent  than  his  keenest  gloating  taunt— 
a  smile  in  which  she  read  the  answer  to  her  yet 
unspoken  plea;  and,  further  still,  she  saw  that 
he  expected  her — knew  that  she  would  come— 
and  pitied  her  for  woman's  weakness.  Pity!^ 
Pity !  And  from  Jardin ! 

A  wave  of  fury  surged  in  her  parching  throat ; 
she  choked  it  down  and  moved  her  lips  to 
speak.  No  sound  came  forth  save  the  whistle 
of  her  breath,  expelled  convulsively;  and  the 
doctor  waited. 

"Y-e-s?" 

His  tone,  accompanied  by  a  nameless  shrug 
and  a  weary  elevation  of  his  brows,  was  the 
torch  that  lit  the  tinder  in  her  soul ;  and  when 
she  answered  him,  she  set  each  word  on  the 
bowstring  of  contempt  and  shot  to  kill : 

"  You  dog  /  .  .  .  I  have  come  to  say  ...  that 
I  yet  will  nail  your  skin  to  the  door-post  of  The 
House  of  Peace !  Look,  Jardin !  .  .  .  Look  on 
my  beauty  which  has  run  you  mad !  Think  of 
the  scourge  you  place  within  my  reach  .  .  .  and 
when  you  writhe  beneath  its  lash— go  ask  the 

priest  for  mercy ! " 

87 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


She  called  to  her  driver  sharply ;  the  horses 
plunged  away,  and  the  rear  wheel  grazed  the 
doctor's  knee  as  he  leaped  aside. 

Jardin  in  silence  stared  at  the  swiftly  disap- 
pearing carriage  till  it  passed  from  sight,  then 
sought  to  deceive  himself.  He  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff  and  flicked  the  dust  from  his  finger-tips ; 
but  his  hand  was  trembling. 


CHAPTER    VII 

FOR  the  Poppy  Flower  the  next  two  days  were 
busy  ones.  Her  initial  step  was  a  morning  call 
on  M.  Fouchet,  secretary  to  the  prefect  of  police, 
a  weazened  little  man,  who,  had  she  so  desired, 
would  have  stood  upon  his  head,  and  cheerfully. 
From  him  she  received  a  record  of  the  family  La 
Valiere  concisely  written  in  a  small  red  book  ; 
and  this  she  studied  carefully,  from  the  date  on 
which  the  parents  of  the  priest  left  France  for 
Italy  until  the  son,  for  reasons  not  clearly  stated, 
returned  and  entered  as  a  novice  in  The  House 
of  Peace.  From  the  mass  of  detail  she  picked 
her  points  as  a  leader  might  choose  his  men  for 
a  daring  enterprise,  ranging  them  artfully  till 
her  plan  of  action  was  slowly  moulded  into  shape. 

Two  salient  flaws  remained;  one  she  could 
leave  on  the  lap  of  chance,  but  the  other  must 
find  a  remedy.  She  knitted  her  brows  and 
scanned  the  record  line  by  line,  and  at  length 
her  eye  lit  joyfully  on  the  vital  item  for  which 

she  sought. 

89 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Adrienne  ..."  she  murmured  softly. 
"  Adrienne  du  Langois  ..."  Then  she  smiled 
— smiled  grimly,  and  cast  her  book  aside. 

Her  one  remaining  difficulty  was  swept  away 
by  a  stroke  of  unlooked-for  fortune.  She 
learned  through  the  gossip  of  M.  Chatillon  that 
the  Due  de  la  Fere  had  been  sent  that  very  day 
to  Rouen  on  some  mission  for  the  king.  His 
absence  would  cover  a  space  of  several  months ; 
and  owing  to  his  great  uncertainty  of  move- 
ment, his  wife,  the  duchesse,  would  remain  in 
Paris  awaiting  his  return.  There!  There  in 
the  home  of  her  recreant  lover  she  would  hum- 
ble Jardin  and  flout  the  due.  Bon  diable  !  Fate 
had  made  a  jest  at  last,  and  the  Poppy  Flower 
would  see  that  the  laugh  went  round!  The 
duchesse  was  the  sister  of  the  priest,  and  could 
Le  Corbeau  gain  an  entrance  in  her  house,  the 
rest  was  easy,  "  as  easy  as  lying." 

Next  morning  she  left  her  home,  and,  attired 
in  a  modest  gown,  sought  humble  lodgings  in  an 
unpretentious  quarter  of  the  city.  Few  would 
have  recognized  the  flaming  Poppy  Flower  in  the 
timid,  shrinking  girl  who  sat  all  day  at  her  dingy 

window  above  the  shop  of  the  poor  couturiere, 

90 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Madame  Denise;  and  yet,  could  one  have 
watched  her  eyes  as  they  searched  the  street  in 
feverish  eagerness,  his  fancy  might  have  conjured 
up  the  thought  of  a  crouching  panther  waiting 
for  its  prey. 

When  the  dusk  of  evening  settled  down  and 
the  passers-by  loomed  dim  and  spectre-like  amid 
the  gloom,  Le  Corbeau  spied  the  tall,  lithe 
figure  of  the  priest,  as  he  swung  along  with  a 
swift  and  sinuous  stride.  His  cowl,  thrown 
back,  revealed  his  clear-cut  features,  clean,  pa- 
trician, yet  tempered  with  a  wondrous  tender- 
ness, which  had  gained  for  him  the  adoration  of 
the  poor  of  Paris. 

The  heart  of  the  Poppy  Flower  churned  hotly 
in  her  breast  and  seemed  to  count  the  approach- 
ing footsteps  with  its  throbs.  The  priest  was 
now  almost  beneath  her  window !  A  sickening 
chill  gripped  tightly  at  her  throat,  and  she  hid 
like  a  guilty  thing  behind  her  curtains,  trem- 
bled, and  was  afraid.  In  an  instant  the  weak- 
ness passed.  At  a  fleeting  memory  of  Jardin 
she  shut  her  teeth  and  thrust  the  blinds  apart, 
then  leaning  out,  called  gently  down  to  the 
Good  Samaritan: 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


"  Father." 

The  tall  priest  paused,  looked  upward,  and 
beheld  her — a  pale  Madonna — framed  in  a  dingy 
window. 

"  Father,"  she  asked  in  a  faltering  tone,  "  will 
you  not  enter?  I — I  would  speak  with  you." 

He  bowed  and  passed  into  the  shop  of  Ma- 
dame Denise.  Le  Corbeau  met  him  at  the  foot 
of  her  narrow  stair,  and  led  the  way  to  a  shabby 
little  parlor  in  the  rear.  She  closed  the  door 
and  faced  the  priest  in  deep,  unfeigned  confu- 
sion. For  a  moment  he  waited  silently,  then 
led  her  to  a  seat. 

"  How,  mademoiselle,"  he  asked,  with  a  pleas- 
ant smile,  "  may  I  hope  to  serve  you  ? " 

Once  more  that  sickening  fear  gripped  tightly 
at  her  throat,  but  passed  as  she  plunged  into  the 
current  of  her  story.  She  told  it  clearly,  but 
with  many  halts  and  pauses,  and  a  timid  mod- 
esty which  furnished  colour  to  the  role  she  acted. 
In  brief,  her  parents,  although  of  the  French 
nobility,  had  lived  for  many  years  in  Genoa,  and 
upon  their  death  both  she  and  her  brother, 
Louis,  remained  in  Italy  beneath  the  guidance 

of  an  uncle.    Their  income  was  an  ample  one, 

92 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

and  all  went  well  until  their  uncle  was  drowned 
at  sea ;  then  Louis  was  wrongfully  suspected  of 
plotting  against  the  government,  and  was  forced 
to  fly  in  secret  for  his  life.  He  had  promised  to 
join  her  here,  in  Paris,  but  her  search  for  him 
had  proved  fruitless,  although  a  weary  month 
had  passed  since  first  she  came.  She  had  made 
the  voyage  alone,  was  friendless,  unprotected  in 
this  strange,  vast  city,  her  purse— she  paused, 
looked  up  appealingly  and  dropped  her  eyes— 
her  purse  was  growing  lighter  day  by  day ;  her 
brother  might,  alas!  be  dead — and  she  knew 
not  where  to  turn.  She  had  seen  the  priest,  she 
said,  in  the  street  beneath  her  window,  and  had 
called  to  him  in  the  hope  that  his  kind  advice 
might  guide  her  ignorant  and  bewildered  steps. 

The  priest  had  listened  to  her  tale  with  sym- 
pathetic interest,  urging  her  gently  when  she 
faltered  in  her  speech,  lending  her  aid  by  words 
of  warm  encouragement,  and  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, promised  such  assistance  as  lay  within  his 
power;  then  he  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

'To-morrow,  mademoiselle,  with  your  per- 
mission, I  will  send  an  agent  who  can  doubtless 
sift  the  matter  easily ;  and  let  us  hope  that  your 

93 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

brother  will  soon  be  found.  But  you  have  not 
told  me — may  I  ...  ask  your  name  ? " 

"Adrienne,"  she  answered  simply.  "Adri- 
enne  du  Langois." 

"  What ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Du  Langois !  And 
your  father " 

"  The  Chevalier  Bernard." 

The  priest  held  out  his  hands. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  with  a  cordial  warmth, 
"it  was  more  than  a  trick  of  chance  that 
prompted  you  in  speaking  as  I  passed — nay, 
rather,  the  hand  of  ever-watchful  Providence, 
since  it  grants  me  the  privilege  of  aiding  one 
who  bears  your  father's  name." 

Le  Corbeau  gazed  in  well-assumed  astonish- 
ment as  the  priest  continued:* 

"  Your  father  and  mine  were  the  closest 
friends  from  boyhood.  As  a  child  I  remember 
the  Chevalier,  a  slender  gentleman  with  a 
pointed  beard  and  a  wondrous  memory  for  tales 
of  dwarfs  and  goblins.  Why,  you  will  scarce 
believe  it,  mademoiselle,  but  he  gave  me  my 
first  toy  sword."  And  Claudien  laughed.  "A 
mighty  brand  with  which  I  cut  the  heads  from 
the  flowers  in  our  garden,  till  my  mother  slapped 

94 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

my  hands  and  locked  the  dangerous  weapon  in 
her  closet.  But  there,"  he  added  in  a  tone 
of  self-reproach,  "in  my  thoughtless  pleasure 
I  had  wellnigh  forgotten  your  distress,  which  I 
trust  may  vanish  speedily  in  my  sister's  home." 

"Your  sister!" 

"Yes,  my  sister,  the  Duchesse  de  la  Fere, 
who  will  welcome  you  as  an  honoured  guest. 
You  will  come  with  me  to-night — at  once." 

"  But,  father,"  she  expostulated  nervously, 
"  how  could  I — a  stranger — ask  your  sister's  hos- 
pitality? No,  no — impossible!  I  cannot  so  im- 
pose upon  your  courtesy.  Believe  me,  sir,  I— 

But  the  priest  laughed  merrily,  and  answered 
every  protest  with  such  wise  argument  as  to 
leave  her  no  alternative.  His  sister's  home,  he 
said,  would  prove  a  safe  retreat  while  inquiry 
was  set  on  foot  on  behalf  of  her  brother  Louis. 
Again,  the  house  was  overrun  with  servants, 
waxing  fat  in  idleness,  who  would  tend  her 
every  need;  and,  furthermore,  the  Due  de  la 
Fere  was  absent  from  the  city.  Thus  in  com- 
ing she  would  perform  a  deed  of  Christian  char- 
ity by  cheering  Cecile  in  her  hours  of  loneliness. 
Lastly,  were  he,  the  priest,  in  the  place  of  made- 

95 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

moiselle,  he  would  stalk  to  the  palace  of  the 
due,  pound  on  the  door  with  his  two  great  fists, 
and  demand  admittance  in  the  name  of  the 
chevalier. 

And  thus  it  was  settled  in  the  end,  that  he 
should  first  advise  the  duchesse  of  her  coming 
and  return  for  mademoiselle  at  a  later  hour, 
when  her  scanty  wardrobe  had  been  arranged 
and  packed.  Then  he  pressed  her  hand  and 
left  her. 

An  hour  or  more  flew  by,  and  Le  Corbeau  sat 
at  her  dingy  window  in  an  agony  of  indecision. 
At  the  memory  of  the  priest,  in  his  tender- 
ness and  compassion  for  her  false  distress,  a 
wave  of  shame  crept  slowly  from  cheek  to  neck, 
till  her  breast  grew  hot  with  the  stifling  glow  of 
guilt.  It  was  not  to  be  borne !  No,  not  an  in- 
stant more!  She  rose  from  her  seat  and 
snatched  up  her  dark  grey  cloak.  She  would 
fly  from  this  hateful  place — home!  Home! 
And  yet — Jardin! — his  merciless  smile — his 
haunting  drawl  of  irony !  Home — to  gasp  like 
a  fluttering  bird  in  the  falcon's  claws — and  still 
—ah,  God!  it  were  better  so — better  Corbeau 
than  Claudien ! 

96 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Softly  she  crept  down  the  creaking  stairs  to 
the  shop  below,  where  the  pinched  couturi*ere 
sat  nodding  over  a  half-completed  gown.  She 
laid  a  coin  in  the  sleeping  woman's  palm,  and 
with  a  backward  glance  made  stealthily  toward 
the  door.  Too  late!  A  pair  of  foam-flecked 
horses  clattered  down  the  cobbled  street,  and 
the  blazoned  carriage  of  the  Due  de  la  Fere  was 
halted  beside  the  curb.  The  priest  sprang  out, 
and  ere  she  could  cross  the  threshold  and  slip 
away  unseen,  he  entered  and  stood  before  her 
with  a  boyish  smile  of  pleasure. 

What  followed  swam  like  the  dim  confusion 
of  a  dream.  The  priest  was  speaking,  but  his 
words  seemed  meaningless.  A  tall  cocker  in 
silver  livery  swung  her  packing  case  to  the  boot 
of  the  waiting  carriage,  and  in  a  moment  more 
she  was  whirled  away,  with  a  fleeting  glimpse  of 
Madame  Denise,  roused  suddenly  from  her  nap, 
and  staring  stupidly  while  she  idly  fingered  a 
golden  coin,  turning  it  over  and  over  in  her 
work-worn  hand. 

They  sped  across  the  familiar  city,  Le  Cor- 
beau  struggling  with  the  tangled  thoughts  that 
ached  through  her  reeling  brain,  and  beside  her 
7  97 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

chatted  the  black-cloaked  priest,  happy,  indeed, 
in  his  innocent  desire  to  smooth  a  path  for  the 
child  of  his  father's  friend. 

By  some  strange,  mocking  chance  they  passed 
Le  Corbeau's  home.  The  darkened  windows, 
like  sightless  eyes,  stared  vacantly  from  their 
cavities  of  gloom,  and  a  lace-decked  noble 
rapped  vainly  upon  the  door  with  the  hilt  of  his 
slender  rapier. 

They  rolled  down  the  wide  white  boulevard 
skirting  the  Seine,  and  slackened  speed  as  they 
reached  the  gateway  of  the  palace  gardens. 
Once  more  Le  Corbeau  felt  that  icy  tightening 
about  her  heart.  She  was  entering  the  home 
of  the  Due  de  la  Fere — the  due,  whose  wanton 
mistress  she  had  been  —  the  due  who  had 
dragged  her  from  a  pedestal  of  purity  to  the 
mud  of  the  demi-monde.  She  heard  the  wheels 
as  they  crunched  on  the  gravelled  road — a 
spaniel's  rasping  bark,  and  then — a  glare  of 
light  which  wellnigh  blinded  her.  .  .  .  The 
priest  was  lifting  her  shrinking  weight  from  the 
carriage  step  .  .  .  and  his  sister,  with  a  childish 
cry  of  welcome,  sprang  forward  and  kissed  her 
upon  the  cheek. 

98 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LE  CORBEAU  had  gained  her  first  strategic 
point,  but  at  a  cost  which  soiled  the  gloss  of 
conquest  with  a  smear  of  shame.  Her  presence 
in  the  home  of  the  Due  de  la  Fere,  where  the 
priest  might  come  and  go  at  will,  gave  her  at 
once  a  key  to  the  door  of  treachery,  by  which 
she  need  only  enter  cautiously  and  rouse  the 
sleeper  from  his  couch  of  innocence.  And  yet 
at  every  turn  she  found  herself  disarmed  by  the 
brother's  simple  trustfulness  and  the  sister's 
pure,  confiding  love.  The  duchesse,  a  child  in 
thought  and  years,  saw  in  the  older  and  more 
brilliant  woman  an  object  for  girlish  adoration, 
and  opened  her  warm,  impulsive  heart  to  the 
charm  of  a  new-found  idol ;  the  priest,  his  sol- 
emn dignity  relaxed  by  the  debt  he  paid  to  the 
memory  of  the  chevalier,  found  time  to  come 
each  day  in  kind  solicitude  for  the  feeble  health 
of  mademoiselle. 

And  Le  Corbeau,  feigning  shaken  nerves,  as 
a  ruse  by  which  to  gain  immunity  from  the  pry- 

99 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

ing  eyes  of  visitors  and  friends,  was  forced  to 
accept  a  gentle  ministry  to  false  distress,  poured 
out  in  bounty  by  the  hands  of  pure  unselfish- 
ness. At  times  their  kindness  caused  such  con- 
science-stricken pangs,  that  a  word  of  harshness 
would  have  seemed  a  welcome  note ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  her  life  so  new  and  strange — a  life 
of  purity  and  peace  —  brought  recompense. 
How  widely  different  from  the  world  she  had 
always  known;  her  world,  with  its  jar  and  clash, 
its  tinselled  mockery,  its  fierce  unrest !  To  her- 
self she  seemed  like  a  parched  traveller  who 
finds  at  last  the  cool  oasis  shade,  to  lie  beneath 
its  sheltering  palms  in  rest  unspeakable,  forget 
the  heat  of  the  tawny  desert's  breath,  to  weep 
with  joy  beside  a  life-restoring  spring,  to  drink 
and  drink  and  sleep  .  .  .  then  wake  to  drink 
again. 

And  so  the  days  sped  by,  each  bringing  in  its 
span  some  proof  of  love  and  thoughtfulness, 
some  sly  invention  for  the  comfort  of  the  guest 
— an  outcome  of  mysterious  plotting  by  the 
duchesse  and  the  priest,  who  placed  their  heads 
together  and  whispered  long  and  earnestly,  as 

though  the  fate  of  empires  swayed  between  the 

100 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

concoction  of  a  strengthening  soup  and  the 
ministration  of  a  sheaf  of  roses  plucked  from 
their  morning  bath  of  dew. 

Did  the  day  prove  warm  and  clear,  Le  Cor- 
beau  seemed  content  to  wander  through  the 
garden  which  sloped  to  the  river  bank,  to  loll  at 
ease  on  some  shaded  seat,  or  feed  the  gold-fish 
from  the  rim  of  a  tiny  fountain,  listening  the 
<  while  to  the  childish  prattle  of  Cecile,  as  busy 
and  as  sweet  as  the  stream  which  bubbled  from 
the  marble  basin.  Here  the  priest,  perchance, 
would  join  them  for  a  pleasant  hour  snatched 
from  his  labours  in  the  city,  and  when  the  three 
sat  down  together,  the  time  would  fly  on  such 
deceitful  wings  that  Leon — as  Cecile  was  fain 
to  call  him — would  rise  from  his  seat  in  con- 
sternation, chiding  them  laughingly  as  sly  con- 
spirators against  his  cloth. 

He  now  came  oftener  than  had  been  his  wont ; 
but  then  there  were  weighty  reasons  for  his 
coming.  Reports  to  make  on  his  search  for  the 
missing  brother  Louis,  who,  thus  far,  baffled 
every  quest ;  a  moment  only,  to  bring  a  potent 
cordial  which  a  brother  priest  had  found  effect- 
ive in  cases  of  failing  strength  or  sluggish  blood. 

101 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

He  came,  deceived  by  a  hundred  tricks  which 
conscience  plays  on  unsuspecting  man,  twisting 
his  pliant  pleasures  into  artful  shapes  resembling 
duty. 

And  Le  Corbeau  learned  to  listen  for  his 
footsteps  with  emotions  she  herself  could  scarce 
define.  True,  she  saw  the  priest,  as  yet  uncon- 
scious of  his  danger,  sink  swiftly,  surely  beneath 
the  glamour  of  her  half-exerted  spell.  She  saw 
him  gaze  in  wondering  lethargy,  as  a  dove  might 
watch  a  snake,  and  knew  she  had  only  to  sway 
her  polished  coils  with  a  gentle,  undulating 
swing,  to  bide  her  time  and  strike.  But  how 
could  she  strike  where  pity  cried  reproof,  where 
practised  skill  was  met  by  truth  and  artless  in- 
nocence? A  something  stayed  her — a  some- 
thing new  and  strange ;  whence  or  why  it  came 
she  knew  not ;  but  it  crept  upon  her  slowly,  and 
she  wished  to  weep. 

Two  weeks  went  by,  and  still  Le  Corbeau 
made  no  signal  move,  but  passed  her  hours  in 
drowsy  indolence.  There  were  moments  when 
she  yearned  to  creep  away  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  leaving  no  trace  behind  save  the  memory 

of   her  living   lie.     Again,  when    her   pulses 

1 02 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

stirred,  a  spark  of  the  old  Corbeau  would  fire 
her  blood  with  the  mad,  resistless  joy  of  con- 
quering; her  every  subtle  art,  each  ripe,  volup- 
tuous charm,  was  flashed  for  a  burning  instant 
on  the  dazzled  priest,  and  then — at  a  poignant 
stab  of  keen  remorse — the  Poppy  Flower  would 
shrink  within  herself,  lest  he,  lying  within  her 
poisoned  zone,  should  inhale  the  bane  exuded 
from  her  bloom. 

Alas!  her  swift  caprice,  her  fickle  change 
from  ice  to  fire,  from  fire  to  ice  again,  served 
but  to  weld  a  mightier  chain  about  the  neck  of 
him  who  knelt  and  struggled  not.  He  felt  its 
weight,  but  its  links  were  yet  invisible. 

An  evening  came,  an  evening  long  remem- 
bered by  the  priest,  when  he  supped  with  his 
sister  and  her  guest ;  and  afterward  they  sat  for 
an  hour  or  more  in  a  cosy  nook  beneath  the 
glow  of  a  crimson-shaded  lamp,  while  the 
duchesse  read  aloud  from  a  book  of  fairy  tales 
and  Adrienne  was  busied  with  embroidery. 
How  soothing  it  seemed  to  Leon  thus  to  recline 
in  an  easy-chair  and  forget  his  daily  toils,  the 
sins  and  miseries  of  the  squalid  streets,  to  listen 
to  the  softly  modulated  tones  of  his  sister's 

103 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

childish  voice,  and  watch  the  red  light  play  on 
the  face  of  Adrienne  as  she  pored  over  the  pat- 
tern of  her  silken  roses. 

The  fairy  tale  was  ended ;  the  wicked  dwarfs 
were  howling  grievously;  the  cruel  ogre  was 
dead  at  last,  and  the  radiant  princess  had  come 
once  more  into  the  kingdom  of  her  heart's  de- 
sire. Leon  turned  to  Adrienne  and  smiled — a 
smile  he  did  not  understand.  But  Adrienne 
understood,  and  spoke  of  other  tales,  stories  of 
brave  adventure  and  noble  sacrifice.  She  spoke 
of  history  and  art,  of  poetry,  repeating  verse  on 
verse  in  her  low,  seductive  voice,  showing  new 
beauties  in  the  lines  he  had  passed  unheeded, 
and  with  her  sparkling  humour  brushed  away  the 
cobwebs  from  his  dulled  imagination.  He  was 
like  a  man,  she  told  him,  laughingly,  who  had 
looked  on  fruit  his  whole  life  long  and  had 
never  tasted.  She  took  Cecile's  guitar  upon  her 
knee  and  drew  from  its  strings  a  pleading  mel- 
ody— chords  she  had  touched  before,  on  an  oft- 
remembered  night  when  she  stooped  for  the 
doctor's  glove — a  melody  of  tears  and  prayers. 
In  fitful  mood  the  sad  refrain  was  changed  to 

the  martial  notes  of  a  battle  hymn,  then  dropping 

104 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


once  more  into  a  dreamy  theme,  she  sang,  with 
a  soft,  caressing  croon,  a  weird  Italian  ballad, 
which  she  called  "  The  Castle  Sprite."  And 
Leon  sat  with  eyelids  closed  drinking  her  music 
thirstily. 

THE  CASTLE  SPRITE. 

A  minstrel  stood  in  a  castle  grim, 

'Mid  crumbling  and  moss-grown  walls, 
Where  the  lone  owl  hoots  in  the  twilight  dim 

And  flits  through  the  silent  halls. 
And  idly  his  fingers  touched  his  lute, 

As  he  mused  in  the  shadows  drear, 
When  the  plaintive  notes  of  a  silvery  flute 

Fell  witchingly  on  his  ear. 
The  whispering  low  of  the  fountain's  flow, 

In  its  soft  and  tremulous  swell, 
And  the  wild,  weird  sound  of  the  music,  bound 

His  soul  in  a  mystic  spell. 


The  Castle  Sprite  from  an  archway  danced, 

In  nimble  and  noiseless  grace ; 
Her  ivory  limbs  through  a  gauze  robe  glanced, 

Like  the  smile  on  her  Circean  face. 
Her  tresses  were  tangled,  and,  glistening,  fell 

O'er  a  figure  of  faultless  line, 
Her  voice  was  as  clear  as  a  tinkling  bell, 

Her  eyes  were  sparkling  wine. 
The  fire-fly's  loom,  in  the  shrouding  gloom, 

Flashed  pale  on  her  ravishing  charms, 
And  the  pleading  Sprite,  in  the  flickering  light, 

Flung  open  her  snow-white  arms. 
105 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

For  a  moment  wavered  the  minstrel's  gaze 

On  her  passionate,  upturned  face, 
And  his  wild  heart  leaped  in  a  love-lit  blaze, 

As  he  sank  in  her  soft  embrace. 
He  pressed  his  lips  to  her  blush-red  cheek, 

And  a  laugh  of  derision  sped 
Through  the  echoing  halls  to  the  turret's  peak. 

The  youth  on  the  stones  ...  lay  dead. 
When  the  moon  shines  cold  on  the  castle  old, 

And  the  low  wind  sobs  in  the  trees, 
The  notes  of  the  lute  and  the  sighing  flute 

Are  borne  on  the  whispering  breeze. 

When  the  song  was  done  and  Le  Corbeau 
turned  to  Leon  with  a  smile,  urging  that  it  was 
now  his  turn  to  entertain,  he  started  at  her  voice 
and  stammered  helplessly ;  then,  for  lack  of  a 
better  theme,  he  told  her  in  artless  words  of  the 
lives  of  those  who  dwelt  in  The  House  of  Peace. 
He  told  of  their  simple  fare  and  daily  toil ;  of 
their  saint-like  abbe,  who  watched  like  a  shep- 
herd o'er  his  flock;  of  harmless  sports  in  the 
hours  of  recreating.  He  told  of  their  hopes  and 
aims  in  the  narrow  path  which  Heaven  had 
pointed  out :  to  spread  Christ's  message  to  their 
fellow-men ;  to  teach  where  drudging  ignorance 
had  dulled  the  instinctive  wish  to  learn ;  to  flash 
God's  light  through  the  darkened  doorways  of 

the  humblest  hovels ;  to  struggle  with  and  for 

106 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

the  poor  of  Paris  and  make  their  hearts  and 
bodies  clean.  And  last,  to  keep  their  own  frail 
souls  as  spotless  as  their  white  and  unsoiled  cas- 
socks, giving  to  sin  and  poverty  the  toil  of  their 
hands  and  minds — their  hearts  to  God. 

"  Live  ye  thus,"  said  their  abbe  tenderly,  "  in 
the  shadow  of  The  House  of  Peace." 

The  priest  had  spoken  simply,  yet  a  woman 
listened  in  dumb  despair,  and  a  tear,  which  was 
not  all  evil,  glistened  and  fell  like  a  dewdrop  on 
her  silken  roses.  When  he  ceased  to  speak 
there  came  a  long,  unbroken  pause ;  then  Leon 
arose  and  said  good-night. 

When  Le  Corbeau  reached  her  chamber,  she 
sat  for  many  hours  at  the  open  window  which 
looked  across  the  sluggish  waters  of  the  Seine. 

In  her  heart  grew  a  firm  resolve  to  leave  this 
home  of  purity — to  leave  it  untainted  and  as  fair 
as  the  unsoiled  cassocks  of  those  who  dwelt  in 
the  shadow  of  The  House  of  Peace.  Then  she 
rose  in  woman's  wrath,  shook  her  white  fist  at 
the  city's  twinkling  lights,  and  cursed  Jardin — 
curses  that  slid  from  her  bitten  lips — low,  sib- 
ilant, and  long. 

When  the  palace  gates  had  closed  behind  the 
107 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

priest,  he  fell  into  a  rapid  swinging  stride 
which  bore  him  northward  on  his  way  toward 
the  cloister.  As  he  strode  along  the  gloomy, 
ill-lit  streets,  a  something  seemed  to  follow  him, 
a  something  indefinable  and  vague,  like  the 
shadow  of  a  fleecy  cloud  that  crept  across  the 
moon.  It  stole  behind  him  noiselessly,  passed 
and  seemed  to  bar  his  way,  then  vanished,  as  he 
paused  to  soothe  a  half-clad  child  that  crouched 
in  a  darkened  doorway  sobbing  desolately. 
With  a  quickened  pace  he  swung  through  the 
squalid  lanes  to  the  open  country  beyond  the 
city's  line,  where  the  air  blew  fresh  and  cool, 
and  the  odour  of  moistened  trees  refreshed  his 
nostrils  with  its  sweet  perfume;  but  still  the 
shadow  followed  him,  followed  until  he  reached 
the  gate  of  The  House  of  Peace  and  was  hidden 
in  his  cell. 

Long,  long  he  sat  in  an  idle  reverie,  watching 
a  shaft  of  moonlight  that  shot  across  his  room. 
Beyond  the  silver  bar  in  the  shrouding  gloom  a 
faint,  warm  glow,  as  from  a  crimson  lamp-shade, 
filled  his  cell,  and  from  out  its  filmy  haze  the 
Castle  Sprite,, dim  nebulous  and  weird,  swayed 

to   the  whispered  pleadings  of  her  flute.     He 

108 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

heard  the  murmuring  gurgle  of  the  fountain's 
song  and  the  ghoulish  laugh  that  stabbed  the 
silence  with  its  lingering  peal,  to  die  away  in  a 
haunting,  echoed  whine  ..."  Fabien !  Fabien ! 
.  .  .  Forgive!  .  .  .  Forgive!" 

A  dark  cloud  swept  across  the  moon;  the 
candle  flared  in  its  guttered  stand,  and  Claudien 
rose  and  shivered  in  his  lonely  cell.  He  noted, 
with  dull  and  half-unheeding  eyes,  that  the 
nail  which  held  his  crucifix  upon  the  wall  was 
loosened.  To-morrow  he  would  fasten  it  se- 
curely— to-night  he  was  too  weary;  and  God's 
disciple  cast  himself  upon  his  couch  and  wept 
— he  knew  not  why. 


109 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE  sunlight  on  a  bright,  warm  afternoon 
poured  through  the  open  windows  of  a  richly 
appointed  room  in  the  palace  of  the  due — a 
room  in  which  the  duchesse  and  her  guest  were 
wont  to  pass  their  hours  of  idleness  and  ease. 
It  looked  westward  across  the  gardens,  catching 
the  warmest  sunbeams  and  the  coolest  breezes, 
made  sweet  and  pure  as  they  filtered  through 
the  trees  and  flowered  shrubbery. 

Here  the  duchesse  sat  alone  one  morning  with 
her  needlework,  and  as  her  ever-busy  fingers 
stitched  she  hummed  a  happy  song;  but  the 
words  were  softly  uttered  lest  they  should 
waken  Adrienne,  who  was  sleeping  in  a  room 
adjoining. 

A  visitor  had  just  departed,  the  Comtesse 
d'Opaleau,  an  inquisitive  little  woman,  who  had 
come  expressly  to  see  with  her  own  black  eyes 
the  guest  who  avoided  sympathetic  interest  with 

exasperating    impudence;    but  the  guest   was 

no 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

thoughtlessly  asleep,  so  the  comtesse  was  forced 
again  to  content  herself  with  verbal  gleanings. 
Through  the  duchesse  she  learned  of  Adri- 
enne's  fruitless  search  for  her  brother  Louis,  of 
how  she  was  alone  and  unprotected  in  that  great 
and  sinful  city,  until  Leon  found  her  by  the 
merest  chance  and  brought  her  to  the  palace. 

"  Your  brother,"  the  comtesse  asked  in  some 
surprise,  "  the  priest  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  the  duchesse,  "my  brother,  the 
priest.  The  story  is  a  sad  one,  but  I  hope  to 
make  its  ending  bright  indeed.  Could  we  but 
discover  Louis  all  would  soon  be  well,  and 
Adrienne's  health  might  mend  immediately. 
She's  the  dearest  girl  in  all  the  world,  and  did 
my  husband  know  how  much  I  loved  her" — she 
laughed  amusedly — "  I  fear  he  would  frown  in 
jealousy." 

"  Oh,  no,  madame,"  the  comtesse  hastened  to 
assure  her.  "  Were  it  her  brother  Louis  now 
— perhaps— 

"I  speak  of  Adrienne,"  the  duchesse  an- 
swered with  a  rosy  blush,  and  shifted  the  talk  to 
firmer  ground :  "  She  is  very  beautiful  .  .  .  tall 

and  stately,  with  hair  as  black  as  a  raven's  wing 

in 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

.  .  .  great  violet  eyes  that  flash  .  .  .  strange 
eyes,  and  wonderful.  But  her  great  distress  of 
mind  has  quite  unnerved  her.  She  does  not 
mend — poor  dear — and  seems  so  timid.  Paris 
frightens  her.  Why,  she  never  goes  out  except 
into  the  garden.  She  says  she  is  far  more 
happy  here  at  home,  and  calls  me  sister;  and  I 
love  her  very  dearly,  for  she's  good  and  pure— 
so  kind  to  others,  striving  to  hide  her  own  dis- 
tress beneath  a  mask  of  smiles.  But  she's  sad 
at  times,  so  sad  that  Leon  is  anxious  for  her 
health  .  .  .  and  he  comes  here  every  day  to  see 
how  the  patient  fares." 

"  Every  day?  .  .  .  The  priest?  " 

The  eyes  of  the  little  comtesse  grew  round  in 
wondering  surprise. 

"  Why,  yes,"  the  duchesse  answered  naively. 
"Pray,  why  not?" 

"  Oh,  nothing !  I  was  merely  thinking  of — 
er — of  how  kind  it  is  of  your  brother — the 
priest." 

"  Leon  is  kind  to  every  one,"  Cecile  returned 
in  an  earnest  tone.  "  Do  you  know  what  the 
people  of  Paris  call  him?— 'The  Samaritan,  the 

Good  Samaritan.'    That  is  because  of  his  great 

112 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

warm  heart,  and  his  hand  outstretched  to  the 
helpless  always.  Ah,  God  keep  him ! "  she  mur- 
mured reverently.  "  God  keep  him ! " 

The  comtesse  bowed  her  head,  then  rose  to 
go.  She  held  out  her  small  white  hand,  and 
smiled : 

"  I  trust,  my  dear,  that  your  brother's  fears  for 
mademoiselle  may  soon  subside.  She  is  very 
beautiful,  you  say?  Ah,  God  keep  him,  ma- 
dame.  Adieu" 

As  the  carriage  of  the  comtesse  passed  the 
palace  gates,  the  priest  was  on  the  point  of  en- 
tering, and  bowed  in  return  to  her  smiling  salu- 
tation. 

"  Hmp ! "  the  comtesse  sniffed,  with  a  linger- 
ing, backward  glance,  "  he  himself  is  not  so  ill 
to  look  upon.  Had  I  carte  blanclie,  a  tailor's 
art,  and  the  devil's  pepper-box—  ma  foil — he'd 
break  more  hearts  in  twenty  days  than  he  ever 
mended  in  all  his  saintly  life.  Now  I  wonder 
which  is  more  in  danger,  the  patient  or  the  good 
physician?  .  .  .  Peste !  I'd  give  a  tooth  to 
know!" 

The  duchesse,  when   her  visitor  had  gone, 
again  took  up  her  needlework  and  low-voiced 
8  113 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

singing,  when  a  cheery  voice  outside  the  room 
broke  in  upon  her  melody: 

"Cecile!  .  .  .  Little  sister !" 

"  Yes,  Leon,  I  am  here,"  she  answered  as  he 
raised  the  portieres  and  entered. 

"Alone,  little  sister?"  asked  the  priest  as  he 
took  a  chair  beside  her. 

"  Yes,  all  alone ;  but  the  comtesse  was  with 
me  for  an  hour  or  more.  She  came  to  ask  after 
Adrienne." 

"Ah?  And  how  fares  the  patient  to-day, 
Cecile?" 

"  Much  better,"  replied  his  sister.  "  And  do 
you  know,  I  think  she's  improving  every  hour." 

"  Good !  But  who  would  not  with  such  a  doc- 
tor? "  He  pinched  her  cheek  and  smiled.  "  A 
fraction  young,  perhaps — but  wise.  Well  ? " 

"She  seems  much  happier  to-day,"  Cecile 
continued,  "  and  spent  the  morning  with  me  in 
the  garden,  asking  me  question  on  question 
about — about — what  do  you  think? " 

"  I've  not  the  faintest,  first  idea.  When  two 
such  reckless  little  tongues  begin  to  wag " 

The  priest  raised  both  his  hands  and  laughed. 

"  But  guess,"  she  urged. 
114 


"  I  was  always  the  poorest  stick  at  guessing. 
Tell  me." 

She  pointed  her  finger,  paused,  and  said  im- 
pressively : 

"You!" 

"Me?"  And  again  he  laughed.  "Then  I 
must  run  away  and  speedily,  for  now  I'm  known 
at  last  in  my  blackest  colours." 

"You  would  not  laugh,"  she  said  reprov- 
ingly, "  if  you  had  heard  the  splendid  things  I 
said  of  you,  and  had  seen  how  she  listened,  beg- 
ging me  to  tell  her  of  your  childhood,  and  of 
how  you  became  a " 

The  priest's  demeanour  changed  in  a  light- 
ning flash.  "  Hush,  Cecile,"  he  answered 
gravely.  "  Do  not  speak  of  that !  .  .  .  You 
were  saying  that  Adrienne  is  in  better  spirits  ? " 

"Yes,  more  cheerful  than  she  has  been  on 
any  day  since  first  she  came."     The  duchesse 
pointed  to  the  door  of  Le  Corbeau's  chamber. 
"  She  is  sleeping,  I  think.    Shall  I  tell  her  you 
are  here  ? " 

Cecile  had  risen,  but  the  priest  caught  quickly 
at  her  hand. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  he  said, "  I  would  not  waken  her. 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


The  sleep  will  do  her  good,  poor  child."  And 
when  his  sister  was  once  more  seated,  he  added 
in  a  voice  of  low,  caressing  tenderness :  "  Sleep, 
little  one,  was  sent  to  us  from  heaven.  .  .  . 
The  Father  looks  down  in  pity  on  his  children. 
.  .  .  He  sees  them  groping  blindly  in  the  dark- 
ness— sees  them  tempted,  stumble,  and  fall.  .  .  . 
He  hears  their  cries  of  weakness  and  despair  .  .  . 
and  when  their  hearts  are  so  bruised  and  weary 
that  Heaven  itself  seems  far  away  .  .  .  God 
sends  them  sleep — sleep  that  brings  forgetful- 
ness  .  .  .  and  peace.  .  .  .  No,  Cecile,  I  would 
not  waken  her." 

She  sought  his  hand  with  hers  and  murmured 
tenderly : 

"  Ah,  brother,  small  wonder  that  the  people 
love  you  .  .  .  small  indeed.  But  tell  me,"  she 
asked,  in  an  altered  tone,  "  how  fares  the  family 
you  spoke  of  yesterday — the  poor  old  woman 
with  the  broken  arm? " 

"  I  have  just  this  moment  come  from  there. 
She  is  much  improved." 

"And  the  children?" 

Leon  laughed.  "  Oh,  sister,  the  revolution 
that  was  wrought  this  day  is  truly  marvellous ! " 

116 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean? " 

The  priest  stretched  out  his  sinewy  arm. 
"Do  you  see  that  heavy  hand?"  Again  he 
shook  with  merriment.  "  I — I  washed  their 
faces." 

"  Hush,  Leon ! "  the  duchesse  cautioned. 
"Your  laughter  will  waken  Adrienne." 

'  True ;  I  quite  forgot  myself."  He  lowered 
his  voice  and  continued  with  his  story:  "Oh, 
how  they  squirmed,  the  dirty  ones !  I  stood 
them  all  in  line  like  a  melancholy  row  of  much- 
soiled  captives  waiting  for  the  heartless  execu- 
tioner. First,  I  seized  that  little  vandal,  Bazin, 
and  scrubbed  him  mightily,  and  when  he  left 
my  hand  he  looked  for  all  the  world  like  an 
onion  peeled  of  its  outer  coat — sleek  and  shiny 
—a  revelation  even  to  his  mother.  And  then, 
Eugene,  who  kicked  and  screamed,  crying  '  Fa- 
ther !  my  ears  are  coming  off ! '  Next,  Pierre, 
who  bore  it  sturdily,  although  the  grime  seemed 
deeper  than  the  rest  and  more  tenacious.  The 
soapsuds  flew  and  spattered  like  a  foamy  water- 
fall. Faith,  Cecile,  I  never  knew  how  white  a 
brat  he  was.  And  last,  little  Louise,  looking  at 

me  in  round-eyed  wonder,  as  though  the  appli* 

117 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

cation  of  soap  and  water  were  a  new  and  doubt- 
ful game  in  which  she  took  part  reluctantly." 

Once  more  Leon  laughed,  and  rising,  turned 
himself  about  and  asked:  "Are  there  any  soap- 
suds on  my  back,  Cecile  ?  They  seemed  to  fly 
on  everything." 

The  duchesse  threw  her  work  aside:  "Oh, 
brother,"  she  said,  with  impulsive  tenderness, 
"  how  good  you  are !  I  wish  I  might  have  you 
near  me  always." 

"And  am  I  not  near  you,  little  one?" 

"  Yes,  near,"  she  answered  in  hesitation, "  and 
yet " 

"And  yet?"  he  questioned  smilingly. 

"  Oh,  Leon,"  she  said,  "  I  know  I'm  foolish — 
childish — what  you  will — but — but  the  robe !  .  .  . 
It  is  so  solemn,  Leon.  .  .  .  Sometimes  it  almost 
frightens  me — and — and  you  seem  so  far  away." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  sat  in  silent  thought, 
smoothing  the  folds  of  his  cassock  with  uncon- 
scious hands,  till  his  sister's  voice  recalled  him 
from  his  reverie. 

"  You  are  not  listening,  Leon." 

He  patted  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  remember,"  she  asked  in  childish 
118 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

earnestness,  "  the  dear  old  days  when  we  were 
children  ?  It  was  different  then,  when  we  played 
together  in  the  sunshine,  or  sat  with  mother  and 
heard  her  wonderful  tales  of  fairies  and  wicked 
giants.  Have  you  forgotten  the  great  red  giant 
whom  you  said  you  would  some  day  fight  and 
kill  ? "  Leon  shook  his  head  indulgently.  "  And 
the  beautiful  blue-eyed  princess,"  she  asked, 
"  the  princess  you  would  rescue  and  make  your 
wife " 

Leon  raised  his  hand  to  check  her  speech,  and 
a  look  of  poignant  suffering  overspread  his  pallid 
features. 

"  Child,  child,"  he  muttered  in  a  husky  whis- 
per, "  do  you  not  know  that  I  must  think  no 
more  of  such  foolish  tales?  Do  you  not  know 
that  I  must  remember  only  the  Father's  work- 
to  watch  the  sheep  and  lay  aside  the  reed  .  .  . 
forever?" 

"Must  it  be  so,  truly,  Leon?  Forget  the 
good  fairies  and  the  little  princess  ? " 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  he  answered  in  drooping 
sadness. 

"  Even  the  great  red  giant? " 

"No!"  he  cried  out  sharply.  "No!  The 
119 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

giant  is  reality ! "  He  rose  and  paced  the  floor 
in  nervous  restlessness,  forgetful  for  the  mo- 
ment of  his  sister's  presence,  forgetful  that  his 
bitter  thoughts  were  uttered  half  aloud :  "  Do  I 
not  battle  with  him  day  by  day — grappling  with 
him — struggling  with  mind  and  soul — pleading 

for  strength  and  victory — trusting  and  despair- 

•      •* » 
ing? 

The  duchesse  rose  and  came  toward  him. 
"  Brother,"  she  cried,  with  a  frightened  quiver 
in  her  tone,  "  what  are  you  saying — you— 

"There,  there,"  he  murmured  gently,  as  he 
led  her  to  a  seat,  "  you  would  not  understand." 
He  sank  into  his  chair  and  dropped  his  cheek 
upon  his  hand,  repeating  slowly,  "You  would 
not  understand." 

"  Leon,"  she  asked  him  timidly,  "  is  it  then 
the  robe — does  it  frighten  you,  too,  at  times?" 

He  sadly  shook  his  head :  "  No,  little  one ;  I 
fear  the  priest  who  wears  it  in  unworthiness." 

She  knit  her  brows  in  puzzled  thought,  and 
once  more  stroked  his  passive  hand :  "  But, 
Leon,"  she  said,  "can  you  not  sometimes  forget 
the  priest  for  me  ?  I  honour  holy  Church  and 

your  work  of  mercy,  but  you're  my  brother  still 

120 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


— my  brother  whom  I  love  so  tenderly.  Ah, 
Leon,  such  a  love  cannot  be  wicked,  and  if  you 
cared  for  me  as — as  I  care,  dear,  surely  God 
would  not  be  angry.  Do  you  think  so,  Leon  ? " 

"  No,  Cecile,"  he  answered,  with  a  fleeting 
smile ;  "  if  all  the  world  were  as  good  and  pure 
as  you,  there  would  be  small  need  for  solemn 
priests  and  creeds.  So,  little  one,"  he  added, 
with  affected  gaiety,  "  you  are  wisest,  after  all, 
and  your  dull  old  brother  must  learn  his  lessons 
in  your  own  good  school.  Come,  tell  me  what 
you  will." 

"  I  love  to  see  you  so,"  she  answered  joyously, 
and  clapped  her  hands.  "  Then,  too,  you  know, 
I  must  manage  every  one  about  me.  Not  one 
escapes — no,  not  even  you.  What  would  your 
abbe  say  could  he  see  me  now?"  And,  with  a 
roguish  laugh,  she  crossed  to  the  lounge  on 
which  he  sat  and  nestled  close  beside  him. 

Her  brother  smiled  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"  What  would  the  father  say  ?  Truly,  that  the 
best  and  purest  hearts  in  all  the  world  belong 
ever  to  the  Church." 

Leon  spoke  endearingly,  and  held  her  close 

in  a  brotherly  embrace,  while  his  heart  went  out 

121 


in  yearning  tenderness  to  the  sister  who  loved 
him  with  a  child's  idolatry — a  love  which  no 
man,  be  he  prince  or  priest,  is  worse  in  knowing 
— a  love  wherein  "  the  Lord  thy  God,  who  is  a 
jealous  God,"  may  find  no  taint  of  evil.  He 
pressed  her  head  against  his  shoulder  and 
smoothed  her  hair,  while  they  chatted  merrily 
of  the  olden  times,  when  innocence  and  wonder 
filled  the  measure  ot  each  day,  and  the  night 
was  robed  in  a  cassock  of  untroubled  sleep. 

"  Leon,"  said  Cecile  at  length,  "  I  had  the 
sweetest  dream  last  night.  You  were  in  it — and 
the  due — for  I  always  dream  of  him." 

"  Well,  little  one,"  he  urged,  "  pray  tell  me  of 
it." 

"  I  dreamed  we  lived  together  in  the  dearest 
little  house  in  all  the  universe.  There  were  pic- 
tures and  flowers,  fountains  and  cool  gardens. 
There  was  music,  and  we  danced  to  its  pleasing 
measures — yes,  and  you  too — for  in  the  dream 
you  were  no  longer  a  solemn  priest,  but  our 
merry  Leon,  laughing  the  loudest  amongst  us 
all."  The  duchesse  paused  and  sighed  reflec- 
tively: "And  we  seemed  so  happy,  Leon — the 

due  and  I — you  and  Adrienne— 

122 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  priest  rose  suddenly.  "  Cecile ! "  he  cried, 
in  a  tone  which  was  almost  rough  in  its  pained 
intensity,  "you  should  not  tell  me  of  such 
things !  You  should  not  1 "  Then  seeing  in  her 
eyes  a  look  of  suffering,  he  once  more  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  brushed  away  her  tears.  "  For- 
give me,  dear,"  he  whispered  gently,  "  I  did  not 
mean  to  wound  you,  but — but  I'm  not  myself 
to-day.  There — I  must  leave  you  now.  Later, 
perhaps,  I  may  return." 

"But  must  you  go  so  soon?"  she  asked. 
"  Adrienne  will  be  grieved  that  she  did  not  see 
you.  Listen !  Did  you  hear  her  call  ? " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  heard  nothing." 

Cecile  crossed  softly  to  the  door  of  the  sleep- 
ing-room, peeped  within,  and  returned  to  Leon. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  she  is  still  asleep  .  .  .  and 
Leon  .  ,  .  she  looks  so  beautiful  as  she  lies 
with  her  arm  beneath  her  head.  .  .  .  But  her 
covering  has  fallen  to  the  floor.  Wait— I  will 
return  immediately." 

The  duchesse  passed  into  Le  Corbeau's  cham- 
ber, and  the  door  swung  slowly  inward  to  a 
breath  of  air  which  blew  through  the  open  win- 
dows. The  eyes  of  the  waiting  priest,  in  idle 

123 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

apathy,  followed  Cecile  as  she  crossed  the 
threshold,  looked  beyond  and  lingered  for  a 
fleeting  instant  on  the  form  of  the  sleeping  girl, 
then  fell  in  hot  confusion.  The  warm  blood 
surged  from  throat  to  cheek  and  receded  guiltily. 
He  trembled,  paused  in  irresolution,  and  fled 
from  the  room  in  haste ;  he  raised  the  portieres 
with  a  shaking  hand,  and  once  more  turned  his 
sad  gray  eyes  toward  the  open  door,  sighed 
hopelessly,  and  was  gone. 

A  moment  passed  and  Cecile  returned. 

"  I  feared  she  might  take  cold,"  she  said, 
"and—  Then  seeing  she  was  alone,  she 

called  in  wonder,  "  Leon !  Where  are  you? " 

No  answer  came ;  she  ran  to  the  open  window 
and  saw  him  cross  the  garden  rapidly.  She 
called,  but  he  either  failed  to  hear  or  would  not 
heed,  and  soon  was  lost  to  sight  among  the 
trees. 

"  Strange,"  the  duchesse  murmured  as  she  left 
the  window.  "  I  do  not  understand.  .  .  .  Why 
should  he  leave  me  thus,  so  suddenly,  without 
a  parting  word?  I — I  do  not  .  .  .  under- 
stand. ..." 

She  turned  once  more  to  her  needlework, 

124 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

but  her  thoughts  were  not  with  the  silken 
flowers. 

"  Poor  boy,"  she  muttered  compassionately, 
"  his  mind  seems  troubled  with  his  ceaseless  toil. 
He  said  the  giant  was  reality.  Did  he  not  battle 
with  him  day  by  day — struggling  with  mind  and 
soul — praying  for  strength  and  victory — trusting 
and  despairing?  ...  I  wonder  what  he  meant." 
She  shook  her  girlish  head  and  sighed.  "  Ah, 
me !  Poor  Leon ! "  Her  hands  lay  idly  in  her 
lap,  and  her  work  had  slipped  unheeded  to  the 
floor. 

Le  Corbeau,  robed  in  clinging  neglige,  tripped 
softly  from  her  room  and  stood  behind  Cecile. 
She  covered  the  dreamer's  eye  with  her  white, 
slim  hands,  and  cried  out  laughingly: 

"  You  are  my  prisoner  until  you  yield  me  up 
the  secrets  of  your  rebel  thoughts." 

The  duchesse  caught  the  hands  in  hers  and 
smiled.  "  A  willing  captive,  Adrienne,  and  the 
secrets  are  yours  and  welcome;  but  tell  me, 
first,  are  you  better  for  your  nap  ? " 

"Excellent,"  Le  Corbeau  answered  gayly, 
"  and  now  the  secrets !  Ah,"  she  laughed,  "  but 
I  can  guess.  I  know  these  new-made  wives. 

125 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Your  thoughts  went  flying  along  the  dusty  road 
which  leads  to  Rouen,  and  when  they  reached 
that  ancient  city  they  hunted  through  the 
crooked  streets  until  they  pounced  upon  a 
certain  gentleman,  who,  no  doubt,  at  this 
very  minute,  is  longing  for  his  little  wife  at 
home,  and  is  wondering  what  she  may  be  do- 
ing." 

The  duchesse  nodded  gleefully.  "  And  could 
he  see  me  here  with  you  would  it  not  make  him 
happy  ? " 

"The  Due  de  la  Fere — see  me — here!"  Le 
Corbeau  gasped  unthinkingly,  then  in  a  quiz- 
zical aside:  " Dieu!  I  doubt  it!"  But  when 
the  duchesse  turned  her  eyes  upon  her  in  blank 
astonishment,  she  added  lightly :  "  My  dear  .  .  . 
there  are  certain  gentlemen  in  this  strange  old 
world  who  love  their  wives  so  dearly  that  the 
extra  person  ofttimes  proves  an  unwelcome 
guest — even  though  it  be  a  woman." 

"  But  not  with  you,  dear  Adrienne.  Gaston 
would  love  you  as  a  cherished  friend.  He's 
such  a  splendid  fellow,"  she  continued  warmly. 
"  Oh,  I  wish  you  knew  him !  " 

"  And  so  do  I,"  the  other  answered,  with  a 
126 


sphinx-like  smile.  '  There  are  certain  things  I 
should  like  to  ask  the  due." 

"What,  Adrienne?" 

Through  Le  Corbeadi  mind  grim,  aberrant 
thoughts  of  her  erstwhile  lover  stirred  uneasily, 
strange,  immiscible,  like  ghosts  of  humour  at  a 
feast  of  pain.  She  pursed  her  lips  and  answered, 
with  a  lagging  drawl : 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  him — er — er — how  he 
keeps  his  dainty  mustache  in  curl." 

The  laughter  of  the  duchesse  rang  out  mer- 
rily—so fresh,  so  innocent  of  worldly  sin,  that  it 
brought  a  sharper  pang  to  the  Poppy  Flower 
than  might  have  been  given  by  a  crafty  stab  of 
veteran  cruelty. 

"  How  absurd  you  are,"  declared  Cecile,  as 
she  nestled  close  beside  her  friend  on  the  cush- 
ioned lounge.  "  When  you  took  me  prisoner,  I 
had  no  thought  of  gathering  wool  in  Rouen,  but 
was  thinking  of  my  brother;  he  was  with  me  for 
a  little  while,  but  left  in  haste." 

"And  you  did  not  call  me,  Cecile?" 

"  He  would  not  have  you  wakened.  ...  He 
said  that  God  sent  sleep  to  heal  our  suffering 

.  .  .  and  when  our  sorrows  seemed  too  great  for 

127 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

the  heart  to  bear,  Heaven,  in  pity,  gave  forgetful- 
ness  and  rest.  Is  not  the  thought  most  beauti- 
ful?" 

"Yes,  beautiful,"  Le  Corbeau  answered  in 
musing  bitterness,  "  but,  alas !  not  always  true. 
.  .  .  There  are  moments  when  sleep  brings  no 
forgetful  ness.  .  .  .  There  are  nights  when  the 
memory  of  the  day  lives  with  us  ...  moments 
when  the  restless  spirit  shrinks  from  the  great, 
black  shadow  hanging  over  it — drawing  nearer 
— nearer — till  we  waken  with  a  cry  .  .  .  and  re- 
member what  we  are ! " 

She  had  spoken  recklessly,  as  the  hopeless 
gambler  juggles  with  his  fate  on  the  crumbling 
brink  of  ruin;  and  had  the  duchesse  owned  a 
heart  of  less  blind  and  simple  trustfulness  she 
must  have  seen  the  canker-worm  which  lay  con- 
cealed beneath  a  wilted  leaf. 

"Adrienne!"  she  cried  in  trembling  fright. 
"  You  speak  so  strangely.  You  are  not  yourself 
to-day,  and — and  Leon,  too,  was  strange.  I  try 
so  hard  to  understand  him,  but  he  says  I'm  a 
foolish  child,  and " 

"  How  was  he  strange,  Cecile  ? "  Le  Corbeau 

asked,  with  enforced  composure. 

128 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


"  I  scarcely  know  how  I  may  tell  you.  Twas 
something  which  almost  startled  me.  He 
said- 

At  this  moment  a  liveried  servant  entered, 
bowed,  and  waited  in  solemn  deference.  The 
duchesse  looked  up  inquiringly: 

"Well,  Gautier?" 

The  servant  advanced  a  step  toward  Le  Cor- 
beau  and  once  more  bowed: 

"  I  beg  to  say  to  Mademoiselle  du  Langois 
that  monsieur  le  docteur  waits  below." 

"  The  doctor! "  she  exclaimed  in  blank  amaze. 
"  What  doctor?  Cecile,  did  you  request  a  phy- 
sician's visit  ? " 

"I?    No." 

"  There  are  two  of  them,"  Gautier  announced, 
with  apologetic  dignity. 

"  Two  of  them ! "  Le  Corbeau  gasped.  "  Mon 
Dieu,  Gautier !  Did  they  bring  the  coffin  and 
the  burial  inspector?" 

"  No,  mademoiselle,"  the  servant  replied,  with 
smileless  gravity;  "the  gentlemen  are  quite 
alone,  and  came  on  foot." 

The  duchesse  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  "  But 
surely,  Gautier,"  she  said,  "  they  gave  a  name." 
9  I29 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Certainly,  madame.  .  .  .  Dr.  Jardin." 

Le  Corbeau  started,  and  a  wave  of  colour  swept 
hotly  across  her  cheek,  but  recovered  quickly  as 
the  duchesse  turned  to  her,  suggesting  that 
Leon,  in  his  thoughtful  ness,  had  sent  the  great 
physician. 

"  Urn — no,"  Le  Corbeau  slowly  said,  with 
grim  conviction  in  her  tone.  "  I  do  not  think 
.  .  .  that  the  priest  .  .  .  has  sent  the  doctor. 
Ah!  I  remember  now,"  she  added  suddenly, 
"  he's  a  friend  of  my  brother.  Louis  wrote  to 
him  before  we  came  from  Italy.  It  must  be  he ! 
Gautier,  you  may  say  to  the  gentlemen  that  I 
will  see  them  here.  Perhaps,  Ce'cile,  the  doctor 
has  news  of  Louis." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  he  has,"  the  duchesse  cried  in 
radiant  joy.  "  How  happy  it  would  make  us  all ! 
Do  you  wish  to  speak  with  him  alone? " 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,  Cecile,"  said  Le  Cor- 
beau easily,  "  perhaps  it  might  be  best."  She 
turned  to  the  servant.  "  You  may  show  them 
in,  Gautier ;  I  shall  not  keep  them  waiting  over 
long." 

She  passed  into  her  room;  the  duchesse 
tripped  away,  singing  the  happiest  of  songs, 

130 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


while  the  grim  Gautier,  in  solemn  majesty, 
stalked  slowly  out  with  the  air  of  a  blooded 
sultan  misplaced  by  mocking  chance  on  the 
doorstep  of  his  rightful  heritage. 


CHAPTER  X 

GAUTIER,  with  grand  pomposo,  swept  aside 
the  portieres,  and  bowed  as  Raymond  and  the 
doctor  stepped  into  the  room. 

"Messieurs,"  he  said,  with  a  stately  roll, 
"  Mademoiselle  du  Langois  craves  your  kind 
indulgence  till  her  toilet  is  complete."  Then, 
with  another  formal  inclination,  he  noiselessly 
withdrew. 

Raymond  dropped  into  a  chair  and  gazed 
about  the  room  in  critical  approval.  "  Quite 
artistic,  is  it  not,  Jardin  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  with  a  nod,  "  the 
due  is  a  man  of  taste — a  connoisseur  in  art  ... 
and  women.  But  Raymond " 

"Well?" 

"  To  change  the  subject.  Do  you  seriously 
believe  that  Le  Corbeau  will  resent  our  com- 
ing?" 

"  Undoubtedly,"  asserted  Raymond.  "  She 
will  look  upon  this  visit  as  a  gross  intrusion,  and 

132 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


only  wit  and  pure  audacity  will  save  a  scene. 
When  a  man  goes  out  to  light  a  petard,  it  is  al- 
ways well  that  he  knows  the  fuse's  length,  and 
yours,  Jardin,  is  short.  Be  careful,  man.  You 
hold  one  winning  card.  Reserve  it  for  emer- 
gency." 

"  I  know,"  returned  Jardin  dejectedly,  "  but 
I've  lost  my  skill  at  play,  and  my  owlish  wit  is 
stultified  by  the  simple,  blundering  truth.  .  .  . 
God,  man!  I  love  her!  I've  grown  dependent 
on  the  very  air  she  breathes,  and  I'd  rather  far 
endure  her  deepest  scorn  than  the  starving  lone- 
liness of  life  without  her." 

The  doctor  lapsed  into  brooding  silence,  and 
waited  in  impatience  for  Le  Corbeau  to  appear. 
These  last  three  weeks  had  been  a  living  torture 
to  the  man — restless,  nervous,  his  evenings  spent 
in  aimless  wanderings ;  bereft  of  purpose,  save 
that  his  footsteps  led  unfailingly  to  the  door  of 
the  Poppy  Flower— to  hear  the  dreaded  answer 
of  the  maid,  who  answered  his  knock  and  always 
shook  her  head : 

"  Madame  has  not  returned,  Monsieur  le  Doc- 
teur.  No  one  is  here ! " 

Once  he  had  spoken  rudely  to  the  girl,  pushed 
133 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

past  her  and  explored  the  upper  rooms  in  the 
hope  that  she  had  lied ;  but  the  chambers  were 
all  in  order,  and  the  wide  salon  loomed  vast  and 
dismal  in  the  light  of  his  lifted  taper ;  and  the 
silence,  too,  which  seemed  to  creep  from  each 
familiar  nook  chilled  his  blood  with  a  lingering, 
nameless  fear.  He  fled  in  feverish  haste,  delay- 
ing only  to  slip  a  placating  coin  in  the  hand  of 
the  waiting-maid,  who  held  the  door  and  watched 
his  departing  figure  with  a  muttered  maledic- 
tion— while  she  pocketed  his  gift. 

Jardin  had  been  aware  of  Le  Corbeau's  move- 
ments from  the  first,  learning  through  a  patient's 
over-busy  tongue  that  a  certain  Mlle.-du  Langois 
was  a  guest  of  the  Duchesse  de  la  Fere ;  and  by 
an  easy  guess  and  a  few  shrewd  questions  made 
doubt  a  certainty.  He  longed  to  follow  even  to 
her  citadel,  but  dared  not,  till  a  chance  discov- 
ery, by  Raymond,  gave  pretext  for  the  step. 
Thus,  armed  with  a  winning  card,  he  had  en- 
tered boldly,  leaving  to  fortune  and  a  woman's 
mood  the  fate  he  dreaded  more  than  a  hang- 
man's noose. 

At  the  sound  of  Le  Corbeau's  footsteps  Ray- 
mond and  the  doctor  rose.  She  was  pale  with 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

thin-masked  anger,  but  bore  herself  with  easy 
dignity. 

"  To  what,  messieurs,"  she  asked,  with  a  shade 
of  irony,  "  am  I  indebted  for  the  honour  of  your 
unexpected  visit? " 

"  Necessity,"  replied  Jardin,  "  necessity  which 
drives  Mohammed  to  the  mount  at  last.  Your 
friends,  you  see,  have  missed  you  more,  per- 
chance, than  you  have  missed  your  friends.  But 
seriously,  it  seems  a  hundred  years  since  last  I 
saw  you." 

"  Can  three  short  weeks  be  stretched  into  a 
century?" 

The  doctor  leaned  toward  her  and  whispered 
earnestly,  "To  one  who  loves  as  I  love  .  .  . 
yes." 

"Stop!"    she  said.    "I  do  not  care  to   lis- 
ten.    It  is    most    unkind  of  you  to  interfere 
with  me.     Your  presence  here  is  undesired— 
unasked ' 

"You  speak  plainly,"  the  doctor  smiled,  "if 
without  mercy." 

"I  speak  the  truth!" 

"But  Corbeau— "  said  Raymond  in  remon- 
strance. 

135 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

She  cut  him  short  with  a  sharp  correction. 
"  Mademoiselle,  if  you  please,  monsieur ! " 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  begged,  "  I  understand ;  but 
indeed  Jardin  is  not  to  blame  in  coming,  for  I 
persuaded  him.  Apart  from  our  natural  desire 
to  see  your  charming  self,  we  had  some  curiosity 
to  know  how  the  cards  were  turning  in — in — 
shall  1  say  .  .  .  the  game? " 

Le  Corbeau  caught  her  breath  and  answered 
in  caustic  dignity: 

"Messieurs  .  .  .  understand  me!  .  .  .  What 
you  are  pleased  to  call  the  game  is  my  own 
affair.  I  undertook  it,  not  because  I  wished  or 
willed,  but  because  I  was  forced  against  my  will 
—by  you,  Jardin ! "  She  faced  him  angrily.  "  I 
did  it  when  stung  by  your  biting  ridicule — 
goaded  by  insults  to  a  weak  and  senseless 
folly!" 

"And  so  you  repent  the  undertaking?"  the 
doctor  questioned  smilingly. 

She  answered  icily:  "What  I  undertake  I 
carry  through,  and  this  I  wish  to  carry  through 
alone."  She  inclined  her  head  with  stilted 
courtesy.  "  Messieurs  ...  I  wish  you  both 
good-day." 

136 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Emergency!"  whispered  Raymond  in  the 
doctor's  ear.  "  Play  your  card  and  quickly." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  began  Jardin,  "  my  visit  has 
another  object " 

"  I  dare  say,"  she  interrupted,  "  but  I  do  not 
care  to  hear  it." 

Raymond  thought  to  stay  the  coming  storm, 
but  spoke  incautiously.  "  My  dear*Corbeau— 

She  turned  upon  him  fiercely.  "  Mon  Dieu  ! 
Will  you  always  use  that  name  ?  Did  I  not  tell 
you  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  the  sequel  of  your 
rude  intrusion.  Only  go !  Go !  Go ! " 

"  But  only  a  word,"  he  persisted  pleadingly. 
"  Believe  me,  you'll  not  regret  the  moment  spent 
in  listening." 

"Well  .  .  .  what  is  it?" 

"  I  came,"  Jardin  began  once  more,  "  at  the 
risk  of  your  displeasure  to  prove  my  friendli- 
ness, not  to  mar  your  plans." 

"I  think,"  Le  Corbeau  said  ungraciously, 
while  she  tapped  the  floor  with  a  nervous  foot, 
"  I  think  you  said  that  once  before.  In  the 
devil's  name,  be  done  with  this  absurdity ! " 

"  But  have  you  thought,"  the  doctor  asked, 
"  of  the  hourly  risk  you  run  in— 

137 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Sapristi!  Do  you  dream  that  this  is  news 
to  me?  Am  I  a  child? " 

"  Pray  let  him  explain,"  urged  Raymond  seri- 
ously. "  The  cause  is  graver  than  your  thoughts 
suppose." 

"  Then  be  quick,"  she  retorted  in  petulance, 
"  for  my  patience  is  exhausted ! " 

"  The  king,"  said  Jardin,  with  slow  impress- 
iveness,  "  has  recalled  the  Due  de  la  Fere  from 
Rouen."  Le  Corbeau  started  violently.  "  His 
wife  knows  nothing  of  it ;  and  I  merely  thought 
that  should  your  quondam  lover  drop  in — er— 
unexpectedly,  and  find — shall  we  say — a  dear  old 
friend — perhaps " 

The  doctor  raised  his  palms  and  shrugged  ex- 
pressively in  lieu  of  unspoken  possibilities.  Le 
Corbeau  studied  him  in  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  stretched  out  her  hand  impulsively. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  It  is  generous  of 
you  to  put  me  on  my  guard,  and  I  misjudged 
you.  Pray  forgive  me." 

"  Good ! "  cried  Raymond.  "  We  are  friends 
again.  "  Yes,"  he  added,  "  the  due  returns  at 
noon  to-morrow.  He  will  go,  of  course,  directly 

to  the  king,  but  by  night  at  least " 

138 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


Le  Corbeau  interrupted  with  a  gesture,  and 
when  she  spoke  a  note  of  sadness  touched  her 
halting  tone : 

"  By  night — at  least — he  will  be  here — at 
home." 

"  And  therefore,  mademoiselle,"  advised  Jar- 
din,  "it  were  well  that  you  leave  to-day — at 
once."  He  smiled  sardonically.  "  The  due, 
I've  heard,  is  a  man  of  action,  and  your  exit 
might  be  marked  by  less  dignity  than  a  proud 
Du  Langois  relishes.  Bien?" 

She  paid  no  heed  to  his  tone  of  irony,  but 
said  in  drooping  weariness:  "And  yet — I've 
half  a  mind  to  stay  .  .  .  and  let  him  find  me 
here." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then,"  she  repeated  bitterly,  "and  then 
his  servants  will  thrust  me  out  into  the  street 
...  as  I  deserve." 

"  Oh  ho ! "  the  doctor  laughed.  "  I  see !  The 
cross  of  good  St.  Anthony  proves  a  mite  too 
stanch'."  She  rested  her  eyes  upon  him, 
paused,  and  answered  slowly: 

"  His  cross  is  strong,  but  on  his  rosary  .  .  . 
he  tells  one  bead — for  me." 

139 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Hmp !  A  single  bead !  Then  I  fear  you 
have  played  your  little  game  and  lost." 

"  No !  .  .  .  but  my  heart  is  sick  of  it.  Sick  of 
the  hateful  sham — the  base  pretense  to  what  I 
am  not,  and  can  never  be." 

"  Bon  Dieu  !    A  conscience ! " 

"  Listen,  gentlemen,"  she  said  in  a  hard  and 
cheerless  voice,  wherein  spoke  more  than  simple 
penitence.  "  I  crept  into  this  house  a  hypocrite 
— a  liar — posing  as  the  daughter  of  their  fa- 
ther's friend — winning  their  confidence  by  a 
shameless  fraud.  They  give  me  shelter — food— 
they  minister  to  my  wants  and  comforts.  The 
duchesse  calls  me  sister — oh,  the  mockery !  I 
am  petted,  spoiled,  consoled  for  pretended  sor- 
rows. They  give  me  a  sinner's  glimpse  of  a 
home  of  purity,  different — so  different  from  my 
own." 

"  Ideal, "  drawled  Jardin.  "  A  life  of  serene 
placidity.  How  does  the  violent  change  agree 
with  you  ? " 

"Jardin,  be  still!"  commanded  Raymond 
tartly,  and  turned  to  the  woman  with  a  sym- 
pathetic question:  "And  the  little  duchesse — 

you  have  grown  to  like  her?" 

140 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


1  Cecile  ?  Oh,  yes,  even  though  her  very  pres- 
ence brings  reproof.  She  is  good  and  pure  .  .  . 
and  innocent."  Le  Corbeau  smiled.  "Really 
at  times  it  is  quite  amusing.  Think,  Raymond, 
she  is  teaching  me  needlework.  Needlework! 
Me!" 

"And  what,"  Jardin  asked  brutally,  "does 
madame  teach  the  duchesse  ?  " 

"Nothing!"  she  retorted  coldly.  "  I  am  a 
pupil."  Then  angrily:  "Jardin!  .  .  .  will  you 
never  learn  that  a  woman — even  though  she  is 
of  the  world — is  not  without  some  pity  ...  or 
a  heart?  I  have  taught  her  nothing." 

"Ah?" 

"Why  are  you  so  bitterly  unkind?  In  the 
last  two  months  you  have  changed  indeed." 

"  I,  too,  have  been  a  pupil." 

"  Of  mine,"  she  nodded  sadly.  "  I  appreciate 
your  thrust — the  sharper  because  of  truth.  But 
come,  we  will  not  quarrel  now;  I  have  no  heart 
to  quarrel." 

Raymond,  at  a  signal  from  Jardin,  passed  out 
upon  a  portico  which  overlooked  the  palace  gar- 
dens, and  the  doctor,  left  in  possession  of  the 

field,  turned  and  spoke  repentantly: 

141 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Forgive  my  discourtesy.  I  am  not  myself 
to-day,  and  there's  more  beneath  a  cloak  than 
shows  on  its  outer  side.  I  have  one  other  word 
to  say.  You  will  listen  ? " 

Again  Le  Corbeau  nodded  wearily  and  sank 
upon  the  lounge.  "  Go  on,"  she  murmured,  "  I 
am  listening." 

He  stood  before  her  like  a  supplicant,  his 
white  hands  clenched  in  nervous  earnestness. 

"Corbeau,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "you've 
never  known  how  deeply  I  have  loved  you.  At 
heart  I  am  not  evil,  but  there  are  moments 
when  I  seem  to  lose  control  and  madness 
chokes  my  better  self  to  silence.  I  have  a  wife 
— patient — proud — but  I  do  not  love  her.  ...  I 
cannot!  .  .  .  No!  It  is  you!  You!  I  think 
of  you  always — I  dream  you  are  mine,  and  wake 
to  the  aching  hell  of  unpossession.  .  .  .  I've 
been  like  a  beast  confined  in  a  steel-barred  cage — 
prowling,  prowling,  till  his  muzzle  bleeds — in  a 
hopeless  hunt  for  liberty.  Oh,  Corbeau,  forget 
my  baseness — give  up  this  hateful  thing — come 
back  with  me  ...  to  the  old  life  once  again." 

She  looked  up  sadly.    "The  old  life?    Ah, 

Jardin,  the  old  life  is  paler  than  it  used  to  be." 

142 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

'  Then  leave  it  all— forever.  I n  England  with 
me " 

She  raised  her  hand  to  check  his  ardour. 
"  Don't  ask  me  this,"  she  begged ;  "  it  only  pains 
us  both.  I  cannot." 

"  You,  too,  have  changed,"  the  doctor  faltered. 
"  The  priest — is  he  the  cause  ? " 

"Changed?  The  priest?"  she  repeated,  half 
unconsciously.  "  Perhaps  ...  I  do  not  know. 
.  .  .  Go  now,  Jardin,  and  forget  Corbeau.  It 
were  better  for  us  both." 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand  and  held  it  in 
a  lingering  grasp. 

"  Don't  send  me  away  like  this,"  he  pleaded. 
"  It  is  far  more  cruel  than  you  know.  If  you 
kill  my  hope,  you  leave  me  a  prey  to  all  the  ugly 
devils  of  jealousy  and  madness — the  evil  thing 
of  your  own  creation.  Come  back,  Corbeau.  I 
only  ask  the  love  you  gave  me  once — the 
love  you  thought  you  gave  me — a  crumb — a 
grain- 
She  rose  and  turned  away  her  eyes.  "  No.  .  . 
No,  Jardin.  ...  I  cannot." 

The  fevered  blood  raced  swiftly  from  his 
ch  jek ;  he  watched  her  for  a  moment  silently, 

143 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

his  eyes  like  slits  in  his  hard,  grey  face ;  then  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  laughed. 

"Jardin!"  Le  Corbeau  called.  He  turned 
and  came  slowly  back.  "  Jardin,  I  wish  to  thank 
you  once  again  for  your  warning  of  the  due's 
return.  It  was  more  than  generous." 

The  doctor  bowed  and  replied  with  his  old 
sang-froid: 

"  The  simple  courtesy  of  calling  check  to 
queen  in  our  game  of  chess,  madame.  But  the 
move  is  yours.  What  will  you  do  since  you  lose 
your  castle  ? " 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  iterated  nervously. 

"  I— I  must  think— I "  She  held  out  her 

hands  impulsively.  "  Oh,  my  friend,  release  me 
from  the  wager.  I  can't  go  on!  •  I  can't!  I 
can't!" 

"It  rests  with  you." 

"With  me?" 

"  Acknowledge  your  defeat — and  then ' 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  she  asked  in  rising 
fear. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders  indo- 
lently : 

"  We  make  a  bet  ...  we  lose  ...  we  pay." 
144 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  But  the  forfeit ! "  she  cried  in  terror.    "  You 

would   not   claim— you  would    not  claim  .  .  . 

/ " 
me  ! 

He  looked  upon  her  with  a  slow,  triumphant 
smile  and  answered  cruelly: 

"  I  would  have  paid  five  hundred  thousand 
francs  .  .  .  had  you  nailed  my  skin  to  the  door- 
post of  The  House  of  Peace." 

"  But  surely,"  she  urged,  "  you  are  not  in 
earnest.  You  would  not  take  advantage  of  a 
woman's  angry  folly.  I  was  mad — insane — I 
knew  not  what  I  did.  Oh,  Jardin,  I — I  admit 
defeat — failure — anything — but  release  me,  Jar- 
din;  I  ask  you  as  a  man — a  gentleman — have 
pity  on  me." 

"  You  have  lavished  none  on  me." 

"  But  think,  Jardin,"  she  urged  in  desperation, 
"  I  could  conquer  if  I  would.  The  priest  is 
weak.  .  .  .  I  can  bend  him  to  my  will.  Ah,  I've 
seen  his  eyelids  droop,  the  paling  cheek,  the 
restless  hand,  and  the  voice  that  halts  and 
trembles.  ...  I  could  win  him  if  I  would." 

"  Then  win  him ! "  snarled  Jardin  through  his 
straight,  thin  lips. 

"  No !  No ! "  she  cried  out  piteously.  "  The 
10  145 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

priest  is  noble — just — he  trusts  me ;  he  believes 
me ;  the  humble  servant  of  Heaven,  and  you  ask 
me  to  drag  him  down.  His  kindness  falls  upon 
me  like  a  knotted  scourge ;  his  gentleness  .  .  . 
a  blow  upon  the  mouth.  This  he  gives  me  in 
payment  for  a  lie,  and  I  long  to  die  of  shame. 
No!  No!"  she  moaned.  "By  the  God  he 
loves,  I  will  not!"  And  she  sank  upon  the 
lounge  in  an  agony  of  weeping.  "  I'm  beaten- 
broken — take  me  if  you  will  .  .  .  but  pity  me !  " 

The  doctor  looked  in  silence,  scarce  crediting 
the  proof  of  sight  and  sound.  Once,  twice  he 
moved  his  lips  ere  speech  would  flow. 

"And  you  will  come" — he  asked,  an  eager 
tremour  in  his  tone — "  to  me? " 

She  nodded  miserably  and  hid  her  face  be- 
tween her  hands.  Jardin  drew  nearer,  bending 
his  exultant  eyes  on  the  wilted  Poppy  Flower; 
and  in  the  love  which  mastered  him  he  grasped 
her  wrists  and  drew  her  hands  apart,  then  kissed 
her  passionately  upon  the  mouth. 

With  a  hunted  cry  she  wrenched  herself  away, 
leaped  from  the  lounge  and  faced  him,  her  harsh 
voice  choked  with  panting  fury: 

"Fool/  .  .  .  Fool!" 

146 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

He  took  a  backward  step,  awed  by  the  flam- 
ing madness  in  her  eyes,  and  the  hot,  lavatic 
rage  which  bubbled  to  her  sullied  lips. 

"  Could  you  not  respect  a  woman's  grief  for 
the  degradation  you  have  forced  upon  her? 
Fool !  .  .  .  I  would  have  paid  your  forfeit  had  I 
died  of  shame.  But  now  ...  I  will  not ! "  She 
snapped  her  finger  in  his  face.  "  That,  for  your 
unholy  wager !  That,  for  an  oath  to  you — you, 
the  dust  beneath  his  feet ! " 

"Take  care!" 

"  The  dust,  I  say !  The  dust !  Better  a  mil- 
lion perjuries  than  the  brutish  love  you  offer,  or 
a  single  stain  on  the  robe  of  the  Good  Samari- 
tan. Now,  go!  I've  done  with  the  sin  .  .  .  and 
you!" 

"  Not  yet,"  the  doctor  drawled,  but  his  old- 
time  savoirfaire  was  edged  with  cold  ferocity. 
"  Not  yet,  for  your  forfeit  shall  be  paid  with 
usury." 

Here  Raymond,  who  had  watched  them  from 
the  portico,  entered  unobserved.  He  took  a 
step  toward  Jardin  and  paused  in  irresolution, 
while  the  doctor,  swept  by  a  storm  of  bitterness, 

went  on  remorselessly : 

147 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  You  have  measured  your  strength  with  mine 
and  failed — failed  as  I  knew  you  would,  when 
virtue  strips  the  cloth  from  your  ulcered  vanity, 
and  you  hide  your  sores  with  a  fetid  rag  of  new- 
born conscience." 

"Jardin!" 

"  Huh  !  Go  tell  your  priest  you  have  found 
a  conscience  .  .  .  and  tell  him  where  you  found 
it.  He  will  scorn  you  as  he  scorned  that  silken 
toad,  the  Marquis  Dubris.  The  marquis,  too, 
has  found  a  conscience.  Nom  de  Dieu  !  what  a 
saintly  pair ! " 

Raymond  clenched  his  teeth,  stepped  swiftly 
to  the  doctor's  side,  and  took  his  arm.  "  Jardin, 
my  friend,"  he  said,  "  this  is  unworthy  of  you. 
In  the  name  of  pity  come  away." 

The  doctor  brushed  his  hand  aside  and 
laughed  derisively.  "  Saint  Corbeau ! " 

Once  more  Raymond  sought  to  pacificate 
his  friend,  speaking  in  manliness,  but  in  mild 
reproach:  "You  are  not  yourself,  Jardin,  to  use 
her  so  discourteously.  Come,  no  more,  I  beg 
you." 

"  And  Saint  Dubris ! "  the  doctor  laughed  in 

acid  irony. 

148 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Le  Corbeau's  mute  despair  touched  Raymond 
to  the  quick. 

"Enough!"  he  cried  out  angrily.  "You 
have  gone  too  far.  No  man  of  honour  would 
force  a  woman  further." 

The  doctor  wheeled  upon  him  with  a  snarl. 
"  Monsieur,  I  have  the  honour  to  address  madame 
— not  you !  Oblige  me  and  hold  your  tongue ! " 

Raymond  flushed  and  retorted  hotly:  "  I  was 
silent  till  my  sense  of  shame  rebelled  and  man- 
hood sickened  at  your  devil's  cruelty.  You 
drove  her  to  the  sin  with  your  sneering  scorn, 
and  when  she  asks  for  pity  you  taunt  her  mis- 
er}7. She  needs  a  friend,  and  before  God  she 
may  call  on  two — the  one  you  have  lost  to-day 
.  .  .  and  this! "  And  he  slapped  the  hilt  of  his 
slender  rapier. 

"  Raymond ! — no,  no,  no,  no ! "  Le  Corbeau 
cried  in  terror. 

Jardin  surveyed  the  challenger  from  top  to 
toe  in  slow  disdain,  then  turning  to  Corbeau, 
said  mockingly: 

"  My  most  profound  congratulations  on  your 
two  bold  champions — the  musician  and  his  bod- 
kin." 

149 


Le  Corbeau  stretched  her  hand  appealingly  to 
Raymond,  but  he  paid  no  heed ;  he  plucked  the 
doctor's  sleeve  and  said  in  measured  calmness : 

"  Pardi,  monsieur,  her  champions  are  worthy 
of  a  just  contempt;  and  yet — if  I  remember 
right — no  one  has  said  that  Raymond  Delese  is 
a  blackguard  and  a  coward.  I  trust,  monsieur, 
that  you  understand  the  musician  and  his  bod- 
kin." 

"  Perfectly."  The  doctor  bowed  with  mock 
obsequiousness.  "We'll  discuss  that  subject 
later." 

"We'll  discuss  it  now!" 

Le  Corbeau  stepped  between  them.  "  No," 
she  said.  "The  quarrel  is  mine.  I'll  keep  it 
mine."  She  turned  to  Jardin  with  enforced 
composure.  "  To-day  I  leave  this  home  of  pu- 
rity to  enter  mine.  Come  to  me  there,  Mon- 
sieur Jardin,  and  claim  your  Jew's  requital- 
blood  and  bone.  I  shall  not  ask  for  pity  a  sec- 
ond time." 

The  doctor  bowed.  "  I  shall  do  myself  the 
honour  of  an  early  visit."  To  Raymond  he  said, 
with  a  curling  sneer:  "Monsieur  Delese  may 

expect  me  also.     Madame  .  .  .  adieu" 

150 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

He  crossed  the  room  and  held  the  portieres 
apart.  Once  more  he  bowed — a  bow  as  taunt- 
ing as  his  lazy  drawl.  Then  he  dropped  the 
velvet  curtains,  and  was  gone. 

Le  Corbeau  watched  in  silence  till  he  disap- 
peared, then  she  sank  upon  the  lounge  and 
sobbed :  "  Oh,  Raymond,  Raymond,  I  fear  that 
man — I  fear  him !  He  is  stronger  than  I — 
he " 

"  He  shall  not  trouble  you  again,"  said  Ray- 
mond gently. 

She  raised  herself  and  grasped  his  arm  in 
trembling  dread. 

"  Raymond,"  she  cried,  "  you  must  not  fight 
him— you  must  not!  His  deadly  sword— you 
would  throw  your  life  away !  You  must 
not!" 

"  At  worst,"  her  champion  smiled,  "  'tis  over 
quickly,  and  better  men  have  passed  in  a  poorer 
cause." 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  urged  imploringly,  and 
clung  to  his  hand,  caressing  it  in  woman's  fear. 
"  I  beg  you,  Raymond,  for  my  sake,  do  not  add 
this  sorrow  to  my  sins." 

"There,  there,"    he   answered    reassuringly, 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  I  promise  that  my  sword  shall  leave  its  sheath 
only  when  forced  by  the  gravest  circumstance. 
Now  think  of  it  no  more.  I  will  send  a  carriage 
after  dusk  this  evening.  Come  home  to-day, 
and  count  upon  me  always." 

"  Oh,  Raymond,"  she  answered  tearfully, "  you 
are  good  to  me — too  good.  But  help  me — for  I 
need  a  friend  indeed." 

"  Yes,  Corbeau  .  .  .  till  you  need  my  help  no 
more.  .  .  .  Shall  I  leave  you  now?" 

"  Please.     I  must  rest  .  .  .  and  think." 

"And  the  wager,"  he  asked,  "you  will  give  it 
up?" 

She  nodded  sadly  and  answered  in  a  faltering 
whisper : 

"  Yes  .  .  .  with  one  last  lie  to  cover  my  re- 
treat, and  then — home — to  what?" 

She  bowed  her  head  between  her  arms,  and 
Raymond  placed  a  gentle  hand  upon  her  shoul- 
der: 

"  Cheer  up,  my  friend.  Your  failure  is  a  tri- 
umph where  success  would  mean  dishonour,  and 
we  need  not  blush  to  own  defeat  like  this." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hair  as  a  brother 
might  and  softly  went  away,  leaving  her  bowed 

152 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

beneath  an  unborn  grief  which  her  aching  heart 
sought  vainly  to  conceive. 

She  raised  her  head  and  murmured  bitterly: 
"  Beaten !  .  .  .  Beaten !  .  .  .  but  not  by  him— 
not  by  his  sneers  and  ridicule — but  by  a  priestly 
robe.  Poor  Leon !  .  .  .  how  easy  to  win  him  if 
I  would  .  .  .  but  oh,  the  pity  of  it !  No !  .  .  . 
No!  ...  I  must  say  good-bye  as  gently  as  I 
can — and  forget  .  .  .  forget  ..." 

She  rose  and  staggered  aross  the  room, 
paused  and  shuddered. 

"Jardin!  .  .  .  And  yet — he  is  so  unhappy. 
.  .  .  The  fault  is  mine  .  .  .  mine  only.  ...  I 
made  him  what  he  is.  ...  He  said  I  was 
changed  .  .  .  and  the  priest  .  .  .  the  priest— 
I — I  know  not  what  he  means.  Ah,  Corbeau ! 
Poor  Corbeau ! " 

She  swayed  and  passed  into  her  chamber, 
from  whence  her  stifled  sobs  stole  fitfully. 


CHAPTER    XI 

IN  a  little  while  Cecile  stole  softly  to  Adri- 
enne's  room,  but  thinking  her  asleep  she  sought 
her  own  apartment  for  a  cosy  nap.  An  hour 
went  by  and  Leon  once  more  came. 

"  Cecile ! "  he  called,  and  pushed  the  portieres 
aside.  "Cecile!  ..."  He  paused  and  lis- 
tened. "  She,  too,  is  sleeping,"  he  muttered  half 
aloud,  entered  and  sat  down  upon  the  cushioned 
lounge.  At  his  feet  lay  a  painted  fan  which  Le 
Corbeau  in  forgetful  ness  had  dropped.  He  took 
it  in  his  hands,  his  thoughts  with  her  who  had 
used  it  last,  then  laid  it  gently  down  beside  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  Adrienne  is  still  asleep,"  he 
sighed ;  he  arose  and  listened  eagerly,  shook  his 
head,  and  sank  into  his  seat  again.  What  mat- 
tered it  to  him  ?  He  forced  his  thoughts  to  his 
sister  and  the  due,  but  his  eyes  turned  slowly 
till  they  rested  on  the  chamber  door,  and  his 
hand  stole  out  insentiently  and  gripped  her  fan. 
A  frail  stick  snapped  beneath  the  pressure  of 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


palm;  he  started  guiltily  and  dropped  the 
painted  thing,  leaned  forward,  with  his  burning 
cheeks  upon  his  hand,  and  pondered. 

The  chamber  door  swung  open  and  Le  Cor- 
beau  stood  upon  its  threshold.  She  crossed  the 
room  with  a  noiseless  step  and  paused  behind 
the  abstracted  priest,  for  a  moment  looked  sadly 
down,  half  turned  away,  then  touched  him  gently 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Father." 

He  rose  confusedly  and  faltered  :  "  Your  par- 
don, mademoiselle,  I  did  not  know  —  I— 

"  I  see,"  she  smiled.  "  Pondering  over  some 
deep  problem  of  your  ritual;  planning  more 
work  for  your  tired  hands,  more  steps  for  your 
weary  feet." 

"But  I  am  not  weary,"  he  protested,  "and 
was  planning,  no  new  labours.  Tell  me  —  you 
are  better  to-day?  " 

"Yes,  much  better,  or  rather  I  was,"  she 
stammered  ;  "  but  a  while  ago  I  had  such  a  pain 
—  just  here,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
heart.  "  It  was  so  severe.  ...  It  has  quite  un- 
nerved me." 

"  My  poor,  poor  child  !  "  he  murmured  sympa- 
155 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

thetically,  "  I  am  most  distressed  to  hear  of  it. 
Is  it  more  easy  now?" 

"  Yes  ...  it  has  gone,  .  .  .  but  it  left  me  a 
little  weak.  I  was  resting  when  you  came,  but 
I  heard  you  call  Cecile  and — and— 

"  And  I  disturbed  you,"  the  priest  exclaimed 
in  self-reproach.  "  How  thoughtless  of  me  to 
raise  my  voice ! " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  hastened  to  explain ;  "  I  was 
quite  awake,  and  am  glad  you  came.  Your 
presence  helps  dispel  my  loneliness." 

"  But  you  are  ill,"  he  argued.  "  Will  you  not 
lie  here  upon  the  lounge  and  rest  ? " 

"  You — you  would  not  object  ? "  she  hesitated 
timidly. 

"Why  should  I?" 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  I  am  still  unsteady." 

She  held  out  a  trembling  hand,  and  Leon 
took  it  in  his  own,  leading  her  gently  toward  the 
lounge.  He  placed  and  arranged  a  cushion  be- 
neath her  head,  and  spread  a  filmy  covering 
across  her  slippered  feet. 

"  There,"  he  said,  as  he  tucked  in  a  wayward 
fold,  "  as  snug  as  the  cloister  sparrows." 

"  Father,"  she  murmured,  while  she  thanked 
156 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

him  with  her  eyes,  "  you  are  so  gentle— so  ten- 
der; but,  indeed,  you  are  spoiling  me,  and  I 
soon  shall  become  a  tyrant." 

Leon  laughed.  "  A  dreadful  tyrant,  who  will 
rule  her  subjects  with  a  rod  of  iron,  till  they 
quake  and  tremble  at  her  lightest  word." 

"  A  feeble  queen  with  a  single  subject,"  she 
returned,  with  a  radiant  smile,  "  but  he  at  least 
shall  give  obedience.  Come  sit  beside  me.  .  .  . 
The  queen  must  be  amused." 

"  I  fear,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  a  chair  to  the 
foot  of  the  couch,  "  that  I  will  make  but  a  sorry 
courtier,  for  my  clumsy  tongue  will  halt  and 
stumble  over  every  compliment  and  leave  me 
sprawling  in  the  mire  of  dull  confusion." 

She  replied  in  seeming  earnestness:  "One 
truth  in  home-spun  is  worth  a  thousand  lies  in 
lace  and  velvet."  She  paused,  then  added  with 
a  troubled  frown,  "  I  received  a  piece  of  news 
to-day." 

"Good  news?" 

"  Yes,  good,"  she  answered  in  hesitation,  "  and 
yet — like  nearly  all  good  news — it  brings  a 
sorrow  with  it.  My.brother  Louis  has  arrived  in 
Paris." 

157 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Louis?"  the  priest  exclaimed  delight- 
edly. "  He  is  here  ? " 

"  No ;  I  have  not  seen  him  yet,  but  his  friend, 
Monsieur  Jardin — a  physician,  I  believe — was 
here  this  afternoon,  and  brought  the  tidings.  I 
know  little  as  yet  beyond  the  fact  that  my 
brother  is  alive  and  well." 

"  I  am  more  than  glad,"  said  Leon  hearti- 
ly, "to  hear  such  good  report,  and  doubly 
so  because  your  mind  may  now  be  set  at 
rest." 

"  I,  too,  am  glad,"  she  faltered,  "  but  then- 

The  priest  looked  up,  a  question  in  his  eyes, 
and  Adrienne  answered  musingly:  "I've  been 
so  happy  here.  .  .  .  It  is  peaceful  ...  a  home 
— pure  and " 

The  colour  fled  from  Leon's  cheek.  "And 
must  you  go?"  he  asked.  "No,  no,  your 
brother,  too,  will  come  to  us.  You  cannot 
think  of  leaving,  mademoiselle  ? " 

"  But,  father,"  she  demurred,  "  you  forget  we 
are  uninvited  guests  of  the  Due  de  la  Fere,  who 
does  not  even  know  us." 

"  But  the  due,"  he  argued,  "  would  welcome 

you.    As  the  children  of  our  father's  friend, 

158 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

'twould  be  at  once  his  pleasure  and  his  privi- 
lege." 

She  turned  her  head  away  and  spoke  con- 
fusedly: "Yes,  yes,  I  know,  but— I— I  can't  ex- 
plain it,  father — even  to  you.  For  weighty 
reasons  Louis  wishes  to  remain  unknown — for 
a  time  at  least — and  besides,  I  cannot  always  be 
a  burden  to  my  friends — even " 

"You  a  burden?  How  can  you  dream  of 
it?" 

She  passed  his  remark  and  went  on  sadly :  "  I 
shall  miss  your  sister,  and  will  long  for  the  quiet 
days  and  the  peaceful  evenings."  Her  voice 
came  brokenly  and  sank  into  a  tearful  whisper: 
"  I  shall  miss  you  also,  father.  Will  you  think 
sometimes  of  me — the  poor,  friendless  girl  who 
owes  so  much — so  much  to  you  ? " 

He  answered  simply,  but  his  tone  was  heavy 
with  a  sense  of  loss:  "I  shall  miss  you  .  .  . 
mademoiselle." 

She  turned  her  glorious  eyes  upon  him  plead- 
ingly: "Don't  call  me  mademoiselle;  it  seems 
cold  and  distant."  Her  red  lips  curved  into  a 
smile.  "  Is  not  Adrienne  a  pretty  name?" 

"Adrienne  ..."  he  repeated  slowly,  and 
159 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


lingered  caressingly  upon  its  sound.  "Adri- 
enne  ..." 

The  tremour  in  his  wistful  tone,  like  a  warning 
note,  struck  chill  to  Le  Corbeau's  heart.  She 
cast  her  coverlet  aside  and  rose  with  the  stern 
resolve  that  through  no  further  fault  of  hers 
should  the  priest  be  led  by  evil  or  deceit. 

"  Father,"  she  said  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him,  "  we  will  speak  no  more  of  vain  regrets. 
Come,  I  will  say  good-bye.  I  must  pack  my  few 
belongings — and 

"And  cheat  me  of  my  last  half-hour?"  he 
asked  in  mild  reproach. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered  nervously,  "  not  that 
—but-  -" 

"  Has  your  courtier  grown  so  dull  that  the 
queen  must  fly  from  him  in  five  short  minutes? " 

"No  ...  no." 

"  Shall  I  change  my  home-spun  for  a  suit  of 
lace  and  velvet?" 

"No,  father,  no;  yet  a  parting  ever  proves 
less  sad  when  quickly  made." 

She  offered  her  hand  once  more.  He  rose 
and  took  it  in  both  his  own. 

"And  will  you  not  rest  for  a  little  while?" 
160 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


She  felt  his  pulses  stir,  and  sought  to  withdraw 
her  hand,  but  he  held  it  fast.  "Think,"  he 
pleaded,  "  'tis  the  first  indulgence  I  have  asked, 
and  perhaps — since  you  go  to-day — it  may  be, 
Adrienne  .  .  .  the  last." 

She  hesitated  still,  knowing  that  his  danger 
crouched  unseen  behind  its  fragile  barrier  of 
good  intent;  and  she  would  have  left  him, 
even  though  it  seemed  ungenerous,  but  he 
held  her  fingers  jealously  and  led  her  back  to 
her  place  upon  the  lounge.  With  a  sigh  she 
sank  among  the  cushions,  and  a  silence  fell  be- 
tween them. 

Then  Leon  spoke,  with  an  ill-disguised  at- 
tempt at  cheeriness : 

"  No  more  of  gloomy  subjects !  Tell  me,  how 
have  you  and  the  little  sister  passed  your  morn- 
ing?" 

Le  Corbeau  smiled.  "  Two  lazy  needles  and 
two  busy  tongues.  She  was  telling  me  of  your 
childhood's  days.  It  is  hard  for  me,"  she 
laughed,  "to  imagine  you  a  boy,  running 
through  the  fields  and  robbing  birds'  nests,  or 
fighting  with  the  other  little  vandals." 

Leon  nodded.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it  seems  such 
ii  161 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

a  weary  while  ago,  and  yet— I  must  have  done 
these  things  like  other  boys." 

"  And  you  never  thought  in  those  merry  days 
that  you  might  some  day  be  a  priest — a  Good 
Samaritan  ? " 

He  sadly  shook  his  head.  "  And  sometimes 
still  I  can  hardly  believe  it  true." 

"  To  me,"  she  murmured  gently,  "  it  also 
seems  unreal.  Do  you  know  how  I  have  pic- 
tured you  ? " 

"No.    But  tell  me." 

"  I  love  my  day-dreams,  and  often  I  sit  idly 
thinking  ...  of  cold  reality  and  the  things 
which  might  have  been.  'Tis  then  that  I  see 
you  .  .  .  first,  as  the  noble  man  of  God,  bending 
in  pity  where  others  turn  away — giving  a  cup  of 
water  to  the  thirsty,  lifting  the  fallen  ones,  or 
hushing  the  sobs  of  some  lonely  child  whose 
mother's  voice  is  still  .  .  .  forever.  For  you  are 
tender,  Leon — as  tender  as  a  woman  ..." 

She  paused,  and  in  that  fleet-winged  interval 
the  febrile  spark  of  conquest  leaped  into  living 
flame — devoured  her  pity — burnt  her  fine  re- 
solves to  blackened  dust. 

"  And  then,"  she  crooned, "  when  through  my 
162 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

tears  I  look  again  .  .  .  the  priestly  robe  has 
faded  from  you — the  sadness  of  your  eye  has 
gone  ..."  She  raised  herself,  and  her  voice 
rang  shrill  and  quivering:  "I  see  a  soldier 
charging  through  the  flame  and  smoke  of  bat- 
tle. ...  I  hear  his  shout  of  victory  in  the  din 
of  rushing  squadrons — the  thunder  of  the  guns 
— the  cries  of  men  and  the  crash  of  steel !  .  .  . 
Ah,  Leon,  do  you  think  I  do  not  know  that  an 
arm  like  yours  was  made  to  wield  a  sword? 
Muscles  of  iron— a  heart  that  hammers  at  your 
breast " 

The  priest  flung  out  his  hands  and  rose  ex- 
citedly, paced  to  and  fro,  and  answered  with  a 
husky  cry : 

"Enough!  Enough!  Have  I  not  dreamed 
of  it!  Have  I  not  longed  for  it,  as  the  war- 
horse  stamps  and  quivers  at  the  trumpet's 
sound  ?  To  hold  a  sword  again !  To  feel  the 
wild  thrill  of  danger,  while  the  mad  blood  races 
through  my  veins!  My  arm  is  strong!  My 
sinews  throb  and  strain — 

He  stripped  the  sleeve  from  his  corded  arm 
and  raised  it  in  its  might,  paused  suddenly,  and 
let  it  fall,  as  a  leaf  may  fall  when  touched  by  the 

163 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

winter's    blight.    And    the  woman,  watching, 
asked  wonderingly: 

"  Is  it,  then,  not  true  that  strength  and  cour- 
age were  given  us  to  win  our  battles — to  crown 
our  heads  with  glory? " 

"Ah,  Adrienne,"  he  muttered  in  despair, 
"  upon  the  mighty  shoulders  of  the  Christ  .  .  . 
was  borne  a  cross."  He  sank  into  his  seat  and 
bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands.  "  How  frail  we 
are.  How  soon  the  heart  forgets — forgets  the 
Master's  work  and  turns  to  vanity.  And  I— 
poor  human  fool —  Ah,  Adrienne,  a  priestly 
robe  proves  not  a  shield  from  mortal  selfishness." 

A  moment  passed  in  silence,  then  Le  Corbeau 
spoke  compassionately : 

"  I  think  I  understand,  good  friend.  I,  too, 
have  struggled  and  have  almost  lost.  Leon  .  .  . 
if  I  asked  you  something,  would  it  anger  you?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  She  caught  her  breath 
with  a  quick,  sharp  inhalation : 

"  Tell  me  why  you  became  a  priest." 

His  lips  grew  ashen.  His  chair  was  over- 
turned as  he  rose  suddenly  in  perturbation. 

"  Adrienne ! "    he    cried.      "  You    know  not 

what  you  ask!     I've  striven  to  hide  it — even 

164 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

from  myself !  I  must  forget !  I  must !  I  must ! " 
And  he  crossed  and  stood  before  the  open  win- 
dow to  hide  from  her  the  pangs  of  his  deep 
emotion. 

"Father!  Father!"  she  called,  as  she  fol- 
lowed him.  "  Forgive  me — I  have  wounded 
you.  Forgive  me." 

He  turned  dejectedly.  "  There,"  he  mur- 
mured, "it  matters  not.  'Twas  only  for  the 
moment  that  it  pained  me,  Adrienne." 

She  answered  tearfully:  "  It  was  far  from  my 
mind  to  cause  you  suffering,  and  my  motive  was 
all  unselfish.  I  know  your  story  is  hidden  from 
the  world,  but  I  dared  to  hope  that  with  me  .  .  . 
it  might  have  been  a  help  to  speak  of  it." 

"And  why  should  I  not?"  he  muttered,  pas- 
sionately. "It  lives  with  me  day  and  night. 
I've  hidden  it,  as  you  say,  and  yet,  sometimes,  I 
feel  that  if  I  could  only  tell  it— tell  it  to  some 
one-  -" 

"  Tell  me,  Leon.  I  shall  guard  it  as  a  sacred 
trust." 

He  suffered  her  to  lead  him  back,  as  a  woman 
leads  a  child,  and  when  she  once  more  lay  upon 
the  lounge,  the  pale  priest  paced  before  her 

165 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

restlessly,  and  began  his  story,  while  Le  Cor- 
beau  leaned  upon  her  elbow — watching — watch- 
ing. 

"  Cecile  has  told  you  of  my  childhood.  It  was 
a  happy  one,  and  when  I  advanced  in  years  I 
was  happier  still,  for  I  had  all  that  makes  life 
worth  the  living — youth,  strength,  and  wealth 
.  .  .  wealth — the  key  which  opens  the  gates  of 
the  world  and  makes  the  soul  a  heaven  or  a  hell. 
My  mother  was  Italian.  My  father,  French, 
and  of  the  army.  From  him  I  imbibed  the  in- 
stincts of  a  soldier,  but  through  the  foreign 
blood  came  my  restless  spirit,  a  passionate 
longing  for  reckless  venture — a  hot,  ungoverned 
will,  a  heart  that  loved  and  hated  by  fitful  turns. 
And  so  I  lived — lived  like  a  butterfly,  without  a 
thought  beyond  my  wayward  will  .  .  .  and 
through  it  all  I  had  one  friend  who  loved  me, 
and  whom  I  loved — Fabien  Lament  .  -.  .  a 
noble  friend — noble  in  every  fibre.  Unlike  me, 
he  was  cool  and  calm,  thought  first  and  acted 
afterward,  while  I — but  it  matters  little." 

He  paused,  and  strode  in  moody  silence  to 
and  fro. 

"  Yes,  Leon,"  his  listener  whispered.  "  Go  on." 
1 66 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

'There  was  wine — rivers  of  wine  .  .  .  dice 
.  .  .  and  worse.  Pah!  what  a  life!  My  soul 
grows  sick  at  memory  of  it.  ...  One  night  I 
was  quarrelling  with  Fabien;  the  cause  I  know 
not,  for  my  senses  were  over-steeped  in  drink. 
He  reasoned  with  me  gently,  but  I  was  mad 
with  anger — flung  my  glove  into  his  face  and 
drew  my  sword.  .  .  .  Oh,  Adrienne,"  he  cried 
out  bitterly,  "  I  cannot  tell  it !  No,  I  cannot ! " 

"  Tell  me,  Leon  .  .  .  tell  me  all." 

And  so  he  told  her  how  he  had  fought  with 
Fabien  in  a  drunken  rage,  urging  naught  in 
palliation  of  his  deed,  but  like  a  flagellant  laid 
bare  his  tortured  flesh  to  a  self-inflicted  scourge. 
He  told  his  story  to  its  bitter  end;  told  how  he 
had  flung  himself  in  an  agony  of  grief  beside  his 
dying  friend.  The  tears,  unchecked,  rolled 
slowly  down,  and  his  words,  scarce  audible, 
were  uttered  brokenly: 

"  Ah,  then  I  laid  my  head  upon  his  breast  and 
sobbed  and  sobbed,  kissing  his  cheek  and  begging 
him  to  live.  ...  He  died  with  his  hand  clasped 
tight  in  mine  .  .  .  forgiveness  on  his  lips." 

The  priest  ceased  speaking,  dropped  wearily 

into  a  seat  beside  his  listener,  and  bowed  his 

167 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


head  in  grief  unutterable.  Le  Corbeau  took  his 
hand  and  pressed  it  tenderly : 

"  My  poor,  poor  Leon,  how  my  heart  is  bleed- 
ing for  the  cross  you  bear.  And  then? " 

"  I  fled  from  Italy  to  France,  and  sought 
Sebastian,  Father  of  the  House  of  Peace.  To 
him  I  made  confession,  and  asked  to  give  my 
life  in  atonement  for  the  evil  I  had  done." 

"  And  do  you  feel,"  she  asked,  "  that  you  have 
been  forgiven?" 

"  Forgiveness  is  the  choicest  gem  in  the  crown 
of  God." 

"  And  since  then  you  have  never  spoken  ? " 
she  questioned  presently. 

"  No  word  has  passed  my  lips,  and  yet — the 
hateful  secret  has  dragged  at  my  heart  until  I 
could  cry  aloud  with  pain." 

A  wondrous  pity  flashed  on  Le  Corbeau's 
soul,  a  mighty  longing  to  lift  him  up  from  the 
slough  of  black  repentance  into  joyous  peace. 
No  thought  of  evil  marred  her  pure  desire; 
but,  alas!  she  knew  not  that  in  pity  lay  his 
direst  snare — and  hers. 

"  Leon,"  she  said,  "  I  fear  there  is  one  great 

lesson  you  have  never  learned." 

168 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"And  that?" 

"In  your  gentle  ministry  to  the  grief  of  oth- 
ers did  you  never  think  that  what  you  do  for 
them  might  also  be  done  for  you?  Are  there 
no  hearts  to  share  your  sorrow  as  you  share 
theirs,  and  by  tenderness  to  help  you  bear  your 
pain  ?  Leon  .  .  .  have  you  never  loved  ? " 

He  shook  his  head.    "  Deeply — no." 

"  Ah,  then,  you  do  not  know.  You  seek  for 
light  where  the  sun  can  never  shine.  Can  sor- 
row hide  itself  beneath  a  cloak  and  cowl?  Is 
the  memory  of  a  sin  less  dark  when  shadowed 
by  the  darker  shadow  of  the  Church  ?  No,  no, 
dear  friend.  Only  in  love  may  such  a  secret  be 
forgotten." 

The  priest  withdrew  his  hand  from  hers  and 
answered  nervously:  "Speak  not  of  it — I  beg 
you— I- 

She  leaned  toward  him  and  rested  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  "  I  must  .  .  .  and  to  you." 

"  No,  no  ...  no ! "  he  muttered  helplessly,  and 
shrank  away,  but  Le  Corbeau  paused  not  in  her 
speech ;  and  the  warm  blood,  hurtling  through 
her  veins,  quenched  the  last  pitying  spark : 

"  Have  you  never  known  the  tenderness  of  a 
169 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

woman's  smile — the  touch  of  her  gentle  hand — 
her  soft  caress — the  sound  of  her  voice  that 
haunts  you  everywhere — 

"  Adrienne ! "  he  gasped,  and  rose  as  if  to  flee 
from  her,  paused  and  lingered  in  irresolution. 

"  — the  ear  that  listens  for  your  footstep,  and 
the  lips  that  meet  your  own  in  the  glory  of  a 
kiss  .  .  .  the  kiss  that  thrills  and  burns " 

"Adrienne!  Mademoiselle  —  in  mercy  — 
cease ! " 

He  crossed  the  room,  staggered  and  clutched 
at  a  velvet  portiere,  then  turned  and  lifted  his 
hand  to  speak;  but  she  checked  him  with  a 
glance. 

"Will  you  always  live  so,  Leon,  lonely  and 
sad  at  heart  .  .  .  with  none  to  love  you  with  the 
lasting  love  for  which  your  soul  cries  out? " 

The  priest  crouched,  shivering,  against  the 
wall,  raising  his  arms  to  shut  the  sight  of  her 
from  his  dazzled  eyes,  but  her  purring  voice, 
with  its  low,  melodious  roll,  knocked  at  his 
listening  heart  till  the  door  of  passion  tottered 
on  its  hinge. 

"  Tell  me  no  more ! "  he  gasped.  "  I  cannot 
listen !  I  dare  not  listen ! " 

170 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Dare  not?  Will  you  pass  the  cup  untasted 
then? — the  cup  that  brims  with  the  bubbling 
joy  of  love?  In  all  the  world  is  there  no  one 
to  take  you  by  the  hand  .  .  .  and  lead  you 
home?" 

With  a  cry,  half  inarticulate,  he  sprang  toward 
her,  his  fierce  words  tumbling  from  delirious 
lips: 

"  Yes,  there  is  one !  One  who  could  lift  me 
up  till  my  soul  should  sing  in  heavenly  happi- 
ness. .  .  .  One  who  could  bring  forgetfulness 
and  peace.  ...  One  who  could  change  the 
throb  of  loneliness  to  a  cry  of  ecstasy.  .  .  .  One 
who  could  lead  me  where  she  wills.  Oh !  could 
I  lay  my  head  upon  her  breast  and  weep — to 
catch  the  perfume  of  her  breath — to  touch  her 
lips  with  mine— 

The  temptress  stretched  out  her  white,  bare 
arms ;  her  eyes  looked  hungrily  into  his ;  and  he 
stooped  to  clasp  her  in  his  rough  desire. 

"Adrienne!    My- 

With  a  backward  wrench  he  flung  her  arms 
apart  and  stood  before  her,  quivering,  with 
hands  pressed  tight  against  his  throbbing  tem- 
ples. 

171 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"O  God!"  he  cried,  "I  am  mad!  Mad! 
Mad!"  and  stumbled  blindly  from  the  room, 
his  loosened  rosary  falling  at  Le  Corbeau's  feet. 

She  sat  in  rigid  silence,  while  her  heart-beats 
counted  twice  a  score,  then  cried  out  sharply: 

"  Monsieur  Jardin !  .  .  .  the  game  is  finished ! 
...  I  have  won ! " 

She  stooped  and  raised  the  rosary  from  the 
floor  and  ran  the  string  in  silence  through  her 
idle  fingers. 

"Yesterday  .  .  .  one  bead  upon  this  rosary 
was  mine;  .  .  .  but  now  ...  I  own  it  all!" 
Once  more  her  voice  rose  shrill  and  harsh  in 
the  notes  of  unholy  triumph :  "  Did  I  not  know 
it !  Did  I  not  tell  them  I  would  break  his  cross — 
even  as  I  rend  this  fallen  emblem  of  his  faith ! " 

With  a  vicious  jerk  she  snapped  the  fragile 
string,  stopped  suddenly,  and  gazed  in  frozen 
horror  as  the  loosened  beads  rolled  down  her 
lap  and  clattered  to  the  floor.  She  swayed  and 
slid  from  the  lounge  upon  her  knees  a  stricken, 
wilted  thing. 

"O  God,  forgive  me!  God  forgive  me!" 
she  moaned  in  a  stifled  whisper.  "  Leon !  .  .  . 

Leon!  .  .  .  Leon!  ..." 

172 


With  a  vicious  jerk  she 
snapped  the  fragile  string 


CHAPTER   XII 

THAT  night,  as  Jardin  reached  home  from  a 
long  and  belated  visit  to  a  patient,  his  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  feeble  whine  which  seemed 
to  rise  from  close  beside  his  door-step.  He 
peered  into  the  darkness,  but  nothing  could  be 
seen;  so  he  entered  the  house  and  returned 
with  a  lighted  candle ;  and  as  its  rays  dispelled 
the  shadows  he  discovered,  first,  a  trickling 
stream  of  blood,  and  then  a  wounded  terrier 
crouched,  shivering,  in  a  draughty  corner. 

The  doctor  stooped  and  petted  it,  speaking  in 
a  kindly,  coaxing  tone,  then  lifted  the  dog  and 
carried  it  to  the  room  in  which  his  patients  were 
received.  There  he  laid  the  sufferer  gently 
upon  his  table,  and  with  heated  water  cleansed 
an  ugly  wound. 

The  terrier  shrank  beneath  the  physician's 
touch,  moaning  piteously,  for  the  lacerated  leg 
was  badly  broken,  hanging  limp  and  twisted  on 
the  shoulder  joint.  The  doctor  saw  that  ere  the 

173 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

bone  was  set  the  jagged  cut  must  needs  be 
closed  with  a  stitch  or  two ;  so,  after  stroking  the 
trembling  head,  he  held  the  limb  and  passed  his 
needle  through  the  lip  of  the  fevered  wound. 
The  dog  snarled  viciously  and  sank  his  teeth  in 
the  doctor's  hand. 

Jardin,  with  a  curse,  seized  on  a  heavy  iron 
poker,  and  raised  it  above  his  head.  In  an  in- 
stant more  the  tortured  beast  would  pay  the 
price  of  ingratitude,  and  a  man,  in  passion, 
would  do  another  deed  of  cruelty,  and  forget  it 
when  his  hurt  was  healed.  The  weapon  hov- 
ered in  his  bleeding  hand,  sank  slowly  to  the 
floor,  and  was  set  again  in  its  place  against  the 
wall. 

"  Poor  little  brute,"  the  doctor  muttered  ten- 
derly, "  you  bit  because  of  the  pain  you  could 
not  bear — the  pain,  old  fellow  .  .  .  and  I  think 
I  understand." 

Jardin  first  cauterized  his  wound  and  bound 
it  in  a  healing  salve,  then  brought  a  bowl  of 
milk  and  placed  it  before  the  shivering  offender. 
After  many  a  soothing  word  and  soft  caress  the 
terrier  forgot  its  fears  and  lapped  up  the  offer- 
ing greedily. 

174 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Then  the  doctor  smiled  his  lazy  smile,  and 
once  more  passed  his  needle  through  the  flesh. 
"  Steady,  little  one,"  he  warned,  and  drew  the 
stitch.  The  terrier  whimpered,  raised  its  head, 
and  licked  the  doctor's  hand. 

"  Bravo !  'Twas  bravely  borne.  Again — 
'twill  hurt,  I  know,  but  we'll  grin  and  bear  it, 
you  and  I.  ...  There!  Tis  done  at  last!" 

He  set  the  broken  leg,  and  bound  it  in  a  tiny 
wooden  splint,  then  tenderly  placed  his  last,  but 
not  his  least,  grateful  patient  on  a  padded  chair 
beside  his  bed. 

When  the  lights  were  out,  the  patient,  even 
with  the  throb  of  a  mangled  limb,  at  length  for- 
got its  misery  and  slept — but  the  doctor  lay 
awake.  The  morning  came,  and  the  little  dog 
awoke,  remembered,  and  once  more  licked  the 
hand. 


When  the  priest  retreated  from  Le  Corbeau's 
power,  he  paused  not,  nor  gave  a  backward 
glance,  but  with  his  white  face  muffled  in  his 
cowl  fled  swiftly,  lest  he  weaken  and  return. 
He  hastened  onward,  he  knew  not,  cared  not, 

175 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

where,  his  hot  brain  spinning  in  a  madman's 
dream.  A  sweat  of  terror  started  on  his  brow; 
he  was  faint  and  sick,  yet  his  muscles  strained 
to  carry  him  away  from  the  voice  that  dinned  in 
his  throbbing  ears,  from  the  rounded  arms  that 
stretched  to  him  in  their  glory  of  youth  and  love, 
the  eyes  which  a  man  might  follow  through  the 
murk  of  purgatory. 

An  aged  woman,  from  an  upper  window, 
called  shrilly  as  he  passed,  but  he  paid  no  heed. 
A  troop  of  children  hailed  him  with  a  laughing 
shout,  clutching  at  his  skirts  with  their  chubby 
hands ;  he  rudely  brushed  them  from  his  path 
and  hurried  on,  while  the  little  ones,  in  wide- 
mouthed  wonder,  stood  staring  till  he  disap- 
peared from  sight. 

Northward  he  pushed  and  crossed  the  city's 
line,  still  northward,  till  The  House  of  Peace 
rose  suddenly  into  view  among  the  trees  of  the 
cloister  garden.  He  halted,  passed  his  hand 
across  his  eyes  in  numb  bewilderment,  then 
made  a  wide  detour,  and  came  at  last  to  the 
river  bank  as  the  sun  was  setting.  Here  in  the 
cool  and  solitude  he  would  rest  and  think. 

Think !      No,  no,  for  thought  was  hell ! 

176 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

He  cast  aside  his  garments  and  plunged  into 
the  Seine,  buffeting  the  current  with  his  splen- 
did strength ;  but  in  the  cooling  ripples  of  the 
stream  he  seemed  to  hear  her  voice  again— call- 
ing, calling,  till  his  senses  reeled  in  sweet  delir- 
ium. He  shouted  aloud  to  drown  the  murmur- 
ing cry,  but  the  echoes  laughed  from  the  wooded 
shore  in  mockery. 

He  clothed  himself  and  turned  from  the  riv- 
er's bank  to  a  lonely  road  which  stretched  before 
him  in  the  deepening  twilight.  Along  its  way 
he  hurried,  his  hands  pressed  tight  upon  his 
ears  to  shut  out  the  haunting  sound  of  lapping 
waves,  pursuing  him  in  dull  monotony.  At 
length  he  ran — ran  till  his  knees  gave  way  be- 
neath his  weight,  and  his  hammering  heart 
churned  fiercely  and  was  like  to  burst.  And 
still  he  heard  her  call — heard  it  in  the  very  beat 
of  his  pain-racked  heart.  Then  the  erring  priest 
sank  panting  in  the  dust,  cried  out  to  his  God 
in  misery  .  .  .  and  was  answered  not. 

The  hours  slipped  by ;  the  weary  priest  came 
back  once  more  to  the  gateway  of  The  House 
of  Peace  and  crept  unnoticed  to  his  cell.  Still 

clothed  in  his  soiled  and  dishevelled  cassock  he 
12  17; 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

flung  himself  upon  his  couch,  to  toss  in  sleepless 
agony,  for  she  followed  even  there.  Her  white 
hands  seemed  to  shake  the  iron  windows  bars, 
and  her  great,  deep  eyes  looked  down  appeal- 
ingly. 

He  turned  his  face  against  the  rough  stone 
wall,  but  through  the  darkness  he  heard  her 
whisper  still — that  maddening  murmur  that 
would  never  cease,  floating  through  the  stillness 
of  his  narrow  room,  throbbing  with  his  quick- 
ened pulses,  or  echoed  in  the  solemn  stroke  of 
a  distant  bell :  "  Leon  .  .  .  have  you  never 
loved  .  .  .  nor  known  the  tenderness  of  a  wom- 
an's smile  .  .  .  the  touch  of  her  gentle  hand 
.  .  .  the  soft  caress  .  .  .  the  sound  of  her  voice 
that  haunts  you  everywhere  ....  the  ear  that 
listens  for  your  footstep,  and  the  lips  that  meet 
your  own  in  the  glory  of  a  kiss  .  .  .  the  kiss 
that  thrills  and  burns ' 

Poor  human  heart,  forget  her  if  you  can! 
Fate's  sculptor  carves  too  deep — each  chisel 
stroke  a  memory  till  death.  Plead — plead  with 
your  far,  unheeding  Heaven,  and  beat  your  burn- 
ing hands  against  the  wall!  You  live!  You 

love!    Your  passions,   chained  by  prayer  and 

178 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


penance,  are  loosed  at  last !  Forget  her  if  you 
can !  .  .  .  As  well  pray  back  the  ocean's  ebbing 
tide,  or  preach  God's  mercy  to  a  mother's  hard- 
eyed  grief  as  she  strains  to  her  breast  the  lifeless 
body  of  the  first-born. 

When  the  first  grey  streak  of  morning  crept 
stealthily  through  the  low-barred  window  of  his 
cell,  the  priest  had  sunk  into  a  troubled  sleep. 
Fate's  sculptor  cast  aside  his  tools;  he  knew 
that  his  work  was  finished. 


179 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NEXT  day,  as  Le  Corbeau  chanced  to  stand 
upon  her  balcony,  she  saw  the  priest  in  the 
street  below.  She  leaned  across  the  railing  and 
tried  to  call,  but  the  words  stuck,  choking,  in 
her  throat,  while  her  handkerchief  slipped  from 
her  trembling  hand  and  fluttered  to  his  feet. 
He  stopped,  looked  upward,  and  with  a  sudden 
start  beheld  her  standing  there,  then  bowed  his 
head,  and  passed  along  his  way.  The  day 
dragged  on ;  Le  Corbeau  waited,  but  the  priest 
came  not.  A  longer  night,  again  a  longer  day, 
and  still  she  listened  for  the  footstep  which  she 
knew  must  come. 

"Surely,  it  can't  be  long,"  she  muttered  as 
she  sat  beside  the  window.  "  Two  nights — two 
weary  days  since  I  left  the  palace.  Soon  he  will 
seek  me.  He  must!  A  heart  like  his,  once 
stirred,  will  torture  itself  into  submission,  will 
override  his  reason,  outweigh  his  faith,  and 

bind  him  with  a  chain  which  only  death  ...  or 

1 80 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

I  can  break.  But  if  he  should  not  come  ?  .  .  . 
He  must !  He  shall !  Have  I  not  touched  the 
deepest  chord  that  lay  hidden  in  his  breast?. 
.  .  .  She  bowed  her  head  upon  her  hands 
and  murmured  sadly :  "  He  touched  a  deeper  one 
in  mine.  .  .  .  Leon,  Leon,  'tis  you  have  won 
...  not  I!  ...  Why  need  I  hide  the  truth? 
I've  played  the  game!  I've  lost!  I  love  him! 
...  I  gambled  with  his  soul — the  stake,  five 
hundred  thousand  francs  and  a  woman's  vanity ; 
but  now — but  now  the  stake  is  higher  ...  a 
woman's  life ! " 

She  rose  and  paced  her  wide  salon  in  feverish 
unrest.  "And  this  is  home,"  she  sneered. 
"Home!  How  different  from  Cecile's!  .  .  . 
And  to  think  that  I  have  lived  content  in  this 
tawdry  sty — listened  to  the  songs  and  laughter 
of  drunken  men  and  women — men  and  women 
whom  I  called  my  friends !  Pah!  .  .  .  And  to-' 
morrow  they  will  come  again  .  .  .  drink  my 
wine  and  applaud  my  latest  conquest !  Oh,  if  I 
could  once  forget  it  all — fly  from  this  hated 
place  .  .  .  with  him ! "  She  clenched  her  hands 
and  murmured  in  a  low,  fierce  whisper:  "And 

why  should  I  not?  ...  If  I  can  live  in  happi- 

181 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

ness  and  peace — live  in  some  other  land,  and 
forget  the  nightmare  of  my  wretched  past  .  .  . 
even  as  Leon  shall  forget  the  priest  .  .  .  and 
Fabien.  And  yet — "  She  paused  and  sank 
upon  her  lounge  in  thought:  "  Ah,  me — Jardin 
was  right.  .  .  .  The  game  is  not  finished  yet- 
not  yet — not  yet 

A  door  in  the  rear  was  softly  opened  and  a 
maid  appeared.  "  Pardon,  madame— 

"Yes,  Louise?"  Le  Corbeau  questioned,  lan- 
guidly. 

"  Monsieur  1'Abbe  is  at  the  door  and  begs  the 
honour  of  a  word  with  you." 

Le  Corbeau  started.  " Dieu!  ...  so  soon?" 
she  gasped,  then  turned  to  the  maid  excitedly, 
"  For  whom  did  he  ask,  Louise  ? " 

"  For  Mademoiselle  du  Langois." 

The  Poppy  Flower  breathed  easily  again. 
"Yes,"  she  said.  "You  may  show  him  in, 
Louise."  The  servant  turned  to  go.  "And 
Louise  .  .  .  see  that  I  am  undisturbed  until  the 
father  leaves.  I'm  at  home  to  no  one — under- 
stand me — no  one." 

"  Yes,  madame."    And  Louise  departed.     Le 

Corbeau  sat  pale  and  motionless. 

182 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  I  knew  he  would  come.  ...  I  knew  it ! 
And  still— still  I  am  afraid.  Will  he  know?" 
she  asked  herself.  "Will  he  read  in  my  face 
the  thing  I  am — here  in  this  hateful  place — this 
—ah,  God,  he  must  not !  Must  not ! " 

She  heard  his  step  and  rose,  trembling,  to 
meet  him.  The  priest  came  slowly  forward,  his 
pale  face  pinched  and  worn  with  suffering,  his 
sad  eyes  dull  from  sleeplessness. 

"Adrienne,"  he  said  in  a  voice  which  was 
scarce  his  own,  "Adrienne,  I  have  come  .  .  . 
and —  Are  we  quite  alone?" 

Le  Corbeau  nodded,  for  she  dared  not  trust 
herself  to  speak. 

"Your  brother?" 

"  My — my  brother,"  she  stammered  in  confu- 
sion, "  he— he  will  not  be  here  to-night.  We 
are  quite  alone."  She  pointed  to  a  chair. 
"  You  will  be  seated — Father- 
He  sadly  shook  his  head.  "  You  are  thought- 
ful, Adrienne,  but  I  have  only  a  word  to  say  and 
then  I  will  leave  you  .  .  .  forever." 

"  Forever,  Leon  ? " 

"Yes.  ...  I  could  not  leave  without  that 
word.  ...  It  is  weak  and  selfish— but  I  could 

183 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

not."  He  dropped  his  eyes  and  stood  before 
her  silent  and  abashed. 

"  Ah,  Leon,"  she  murmured  gently,  "  I  fear 
the  priest  has  done  injustice  to  the  man." 

He  raised  his  hand  and  answered  in  a  hard, 
cold  tone: 

"  No.  .  .  .  The  priest  is  just  .  .  .  but  the  man 
is  weaker  than  the  priest.  Adrienne  ...  I  have 
come  to  speak  the  truth.  Did  I  seek  to  dis- 
guise my  motive  or  excuse  it  'twould  be  un- 
manly and  unjust — unjust  to  you  and  cowardly 
to  myself.  In  my  early  life  I  was  thrown  with 
many  women — some  irreproachable,  but  I  gave 
them  little  thought ;  others  of  another  stamp — 
those  pitiful  tempters  of  the  world — a  curse  to 
God,  to  man,  and  to  themselves." 

Le  Corbeau  paled  and  shrank  before  him,  but 
he  paid  no  heed. 

"  And  so  I  lived  in  ignorance  of  the  highest 
gift  of  Heaven — the  love  of  a  pure,  good 
woman." 

"  And  now? "  she  asked,  a  quaver  in  her  tone. 

"  I  know  .  .  .  but  know  too  well.  When  I 
left  the  world  and  took  orders,  I  strove  to  forget 

the  life  I  once  had  led — to  bury  it  in  the  grave 

184 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

with  Fabien.  But  I  could  not  forget— despise 
me  if  you  will— I  could  not !  It  lived  with  me 
day  and  night,  hovering  like  a  vulture  in  my 
dreams :  whispering  of  all  the  happiness  of  a  life 
unshackled,  mocking  my  puny  faith,  pleading 
with  my  wayward,  restless  spirit,  dragging  me 
back  to  the  glad,  sweet  world  so  full  of  joy  ... 
and  sin." 

"My  poor,  poor  Leon!"  his  listener  whis- 
pered tenderly. 

He  lifted  his  hand  to  check  her  sympathy, 
and  spoke  again: 

"  I  strove  to  crush  the  thought,  but  the  great 
red  giant  lived.  He  mastered  me,  mind  and 
soul ;  and  then — and  then  you  came." 

"  Leon ! "  she  cried,  reproachfully. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  bear  with  me  but  a  little 
while ;  it  is  finished  soon,  and  I  will  go.  I  did 
not  know  until  too  late  that  I  loved  you — loved 
you  till  the  sweetness  of  the  thought  was  pain. 
A  poor,  weak  fool — I  sought  to  shut  you  from 
my  heart,  but  your  image  came  ever  back  to 
me,  even  when  I  knelt  before  my  crucifix.  For 
me,  no  rest  ...  no  sleep  ...  no  hope.  If  I 
wandered  through  the  streets,  the  people  looked 

185 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

at  me  with  their  searching  gaze,  seeming  to  read 
my  secret,  even  as  I  read  it  now ;  knowing  that 
beneath  the  robe  of  a  priest  of  God  beats  the 
heart  of  a  man — a  heart  that  cries  out  for  a 
woman's  love,  and  will  not  be  hushed  or  com. 
forted." 

The  priest  was  silent.  Le  Corbeau  bit  her 
lips,  and  after  a  time  said  sorrowfully:  "  Leon,  I 
grieve  that  I  cause  you  all  this  suffering.  I  did 
not  mean  you  wrong,  believe  me ;  and  yet — re- 
proach strikes  far  more  deep  when  undeserved." 

"  I  do  not  reproach  you,  Adrienne.  How  can 
you  think  it?" 

She  turned  upon  him  sharply :  "  Then  why 
did  you  come?  Why  did  you  tell  me?  Why? " 

"  Because  of  a  will  that  is  stronger  than  my 
own — a  will  that  makes  me  weak  arid  pitiful. 
Call  it  cowardice — choose  the  name ;  I  came  be- 
cause I  could  not  help  but  come." 

"  The  priest  or  the  man? " 

"  Both.  .  .  .  The  man,  to  tell  you  that  he 
loved.  .  .  .  The  priest,  to  say  farewell." 

"And  will  the  priest  forget?"  Leon  slowly 
shook  his  head.  "  Does  he  wish  it? " 

"  No  I "  he  answered  bitterly.    "  Listen,  Adri- 
186 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

enne.  ...  I  prayed  to  Heaven  for  help  and  guid- 
ance, but  when  I  lifted  up  my  eyes  I  saw  your 
face — your  smile,  which  seemed  to  beckon  me 
.  .  .  and  then  I  knew  that  the  lips  alone  asked 
God  to  crush  a  love  to  which  my  soul  was  cling- 
ing with  all  its  strength  and  life.  I  prayed  with 
the  lips — not  with  the  heart — and  at  such  a 
mockery  the  devil  laughs." 

Again  the  priest  was  silent.  Le  Corbeau 
turned  away  and  seated  herself  in  earnest 
thought.  When  a  moment  passed  and  he  did 
not  speak,  she  called  him : 

"  Leon  .  .  .  You  have  told  me  that  you  love 
me.  You  tell  me  that  you  have  suffered,  and 
will  suffer  more.  What  is  it  that  you  would  tell 
me  still? " 

"  There  is  nothing,"  he  replied,  with  attempted 
calmness.  "  You  have  listened  patiently  to  my 
story  of  folly  and  unworthiness.  I.  am  grateful 
for  your  forbearance  .  .  .  and  ask  for  naught. 
I  have  told  you  that  I  loved,  but  in  sadness  and 
remorse.  For  the  man,  there  might  be  hope ; 
for  the  priest— none.  There  is  only  one  more 
word  to  say  in  parting." 

"And  that?" 

187 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  priest  held  out  his  strong,  lean  hand: 
"Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered  in  a  tone  expres- 
sionless and  chill. 

For  an  instant  her  hand  hung  passively  in  his 
and  fell  ;  for  a  moment  more  the  priest  looked 
down  upon  her,  with  all  the  wreck  of  an  earthly 
joy  in  his  moistened  eyes  ;  then  he  touched  her 
dusky  hair  with  his  finger  tips  —  touched  it  ten- 
derly, and  turned  away. 

Le  Corbeau  listened  to  his  retreating  foot- 
steps, each  a  bruise  upon  her  heart,  and  knew 
that  did  he  leave  her  now  no  power  of  hers 
would  ever  bring  him  back  again.  If  his  life- 
long love  were  the  buoy  to  save  her  from  a  sea 
of  sin,  she  must  grasp  it  ere  the  ebbing  tide 
could  sweep  them  far  apart.  She  must  fight, 
fight  —  as  women  before  her  fought,  and  shall  for 
all  time  —  as  women,  for  the  price  of  love,  have 
shaken  empires  to  their  deepest  buried  stone 
and  flung  them,  crashing,  in  the  dust  —  a  rotting 
monument  to  the  heart  of  one  weak  man. 


He  turned  in  hesitancy  and  came  slowly  back 

to  her. 

188 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Leon,  is  this  all  that  you  would  say  to 
me?" 

"  All  that  I  can,"  he  answered  sadly.  "  Yes, 
it  is  all.  But  why?" 

"  Why?  "  she  repeated,  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 
"  why?  Because  I  had  hoped  you  were  at  least 
more  generous.  Because  I  had  hoped  that  the 
love  of  which  you  boast  would  lift  you  above 
the  level  of  other  men." 

"Boast?" 

"Ay,  boast!    What  else?" 

"  I — I  do  not  understand." 

"  No ! "  she  retorted  in  a  rising  tone  of  anger 
and  contempt.  "  No !  for  you're  a  man !  Men 
never  understand.  They  come  to  us — without 
reproach — saying  their  lives  are  wrecked  be- 
cause of  us ;  telling  us  their  souls  are  tortured 
with  a  love  that  can  never  be,  and  then — and 
then  they  say  good-bye.  And  you  are  like  the 
rest!" 

"Adrienne!" 

"  It  is  true ! "  she  cried,  and  rose  from  her  seat 
excitedly.  "It  is  true!  Man  follows  his  own 
device.  Forgets  ?  Not  always.  No  ...  for  he 

does  not  try.     He  takes  a  melancholy  memory 

189 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

to  his  heart,  treasuring  it  grain  by  grain,  nursing 
it  until  it  grows  into  a  monster,  to  make  a 
mournful  martyr  of  his  selfishness.  ...  So 
much  for  the  man.  But  what  of  the  woman? 
....  Do  you  think  she  does  not  suffer?  Is  it 
nothing  to  her  that  a  life  is  wrecked ;  that  the 
man  she  loves  goes  from  her  in  despair?  Does 
the  woman  forget  ?  Does  she  not  love  as  deeply 
as  the  man  ?  You  tell  me  of  a  cross  too  heavy 
for  you  to  bear.  You  wake  my  pity  and  com- 
passion .  .  .  then  tell  me  'tis  all  in  vain.  A 
woman  weeps  in  silence.  The  man  must  cry 
aloud  his  suffering,  lest  the  woman  escape  with- 
out a  pang.  You  call  it  weakness,  and  ask  me 
to  choose  its  name.  ...  I  choose  it !  'Tis  cow- 
ardly and  cruel ! " 

"  You  purposely  pervert  my  meaning,  Adri- 
enne." 

"  Am  I  a  child  ? "  she  flashed.  "  Why  did  you 
tell  me.  Why?" 

Leon  raised  his  hand,  but  let  it  fall  de- 
jectedly. 

" You  are  right,"  he  murmured.  "It  was 
ignoble — yes,  and  cruel,  though  I  meant  it  not. 

I  dare  not  hope  for  the  last  forgiveness  which  I 

190 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

ask  .  .  .  and  yet  I  ask  it.  I  am  a  priest— bound 
by  my  sacred  vows.  What  have  I  to  offer? " 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  assented,  with  a  frown ; 
"  to  carry  out  your  work  of  mercy  you  must  not 
be  hampered  by  a  woman."  She  turned  upon 
him  fiercely:  "And  is  my  love  so  venomous  a 
thing  that  charity  is  killed  because  of  it?" 

"  Adrienne — I  beg  you " 

"  Can  good  deeds  blossom  only  in  a  priestly 
soil  ?  Can  a  woman  not  help  a  man  in  his  work 
of  mercy?  Is  her  hand  less  gentle  or  her  heart 
less  true?  Pardi!  we  women  give  you  flesh 
and  bone,  bear  you  in  death-gripped  agony, 
and  still — poor  patient  fools — what  know  we 
of  the  road  to  human  suffering?"  And  Le 
Corbeau  turned  away  and  flung  herself  into  a 
seat,  her  bosom  heaving  with  the  rush  of  heated 
blood. 

"  Child,  child,"  he  reasoned  bitterly,  "  you  do 
not  understand.  The  Church  is  the  mighty  bar- 
rier that  bars  our  will.  The  Church,  which 
stifles  the  words  of  love  that  rise  to  my  lips ;  the 
pledge  of  celibacy,  that  makes  a  barren  desert 
of  my  life ;  my  vow  to  Heaven,  which  crushes 

hope  and  happiness.    If  I  took  you  for  my  wife, 

191 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

what  would  be  the  end  ?  Excommunication — • 
the  curse  of  God." 

"  And  your  fear  is  greater  than  your  love? " 

"  No ;  .  .  .  but  reason  cries  a  warning  which 
even  love  must  heed.  The  brothers  of  my  Or- 
der would  tear  me  from  your  arms,  .  .  .  and 
you,  poor  child,  would  suffer  as  well  as  I. 
Where,  where  in  France  could  we  escape  their 
hatred  or  revenge? " 

"  Is  France  the  world? " 

Leon  took  one  swift,  involuntary  step,  and 
paused — wonder,  fear,  devotion  struggling  for 
the  master-grip;  and  the  woman  watched  him 
silently,  knowing  that  his  will  was  shackled  by  a 
puny  vow  which  soon  must  snap  beneath  the 
weight  of  passion's  hammer  stroke.  But  Faith 
was  battling  for  her  son  in  mute  despair — mute, 
but  unconquered  still,  so  long  as  the  priest  could 
shield  her  with  his  cross.  Le  Corbeau  saw  him 
waver,  clench  his  trembling  fists,  and  move  for 
a  backward  step ;  her  eyes  sought  his  in  a  quick, 
compelling  glance ;  her  hand  crept  slowly  out  to 
him,  was  caught  in  a  fervid  grasp,  and  he  sank 
on  his  knees  beside  her,  speaking  brokenly : 

"  And  would  you  give  up  all  for  me  ?    Would 
192 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

you  take  me  in  my  weakness  and  the  sin  of  for- 
saken faith?  Would  you  follow  me  to  some 
other  country,  where  we  could  forget  my  failure, 
and  remember  only— only  that  we  love  ? " 

"  Wait ! "  Le  Corbeau  rose  and  stood  before 
him,  resolved  to  sunder  the  last  frail  link  which 
bound  him  to  his  cloth.  "  Wait !  Had  you  the 
choice  between  loving  as  you  do  and  the  power 
to  forget  that  you  had  ever  known,  which  would 
you  choose  ?  Which  ? " 

Leon  hesitated  still.  Le  Corbeau  knew  that 
if  she  would  win  the  priest  she  must  win  him 
now,  or  sink  herself  beyond  redemption's  pale ; 
and  she  faced  the  crisis  fearlessly.  She  spoke 
in  a  voice  low,  passionless  and  cold : 

"Think  while  there  is  time.  .  .  .  Think  of 
what  you  are  giving  up  and  the  path  our  feet 
must  tread.  Think  of  yourself,  your  sister,  and 
of  me — of  what  the  world  will  say  of  us:  the 
scorn,  the  ridicule.  Le*on  .  .  .  would  you  love 
me  ...  or  forget  ? " 

"I  would  love!"   he  answered,  tremulously, 

and  took  her  in  his  arms ;  "  love  with  a  depth 

and  tenderness  which  heaven  itself  might  smile 

upon,  forgetting  only  that  I  had  ever  lived  with- 

13  *93 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

out  it.  Ah,  Adrienne,  'tis  like  awakening  from 
a  curse  of  haunted  sleep." 

"  And  are  you  glad  to  wake,  my  Leon? " 

"Glad?  Dear  God,  how  glad!  And  you? 
You  will  be  happy  with  me,  Adrienne? " 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  then  murmured 
musingly: 

"  Perhaps — perhaps 

"Adrienne!" 

She  twined  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
looked  into  his  eyes : 

"  Leon  c  .  .  I  love  you — with  all  my  heart 
and  soul  and  mind.  Life  with  you  will  be  like 
a  sinner's  glimpse  of  heaven,  and  yet " 

"  And  yet? "  he  asked  in  an  eager  whisper. 

'  'Tis  not  the  future  which  frightens  me,  but 
the  past.  Listen,  dear  one:  I  know  that  you 
love  me  with  a  love  which  is  almost  worship ; 
but  a  time  may  come  when  regret  will  creep 
into  your  heart — regret  for  the  life  you  are 
giving  up — the  broken  rosary,  the  robe  which 
you  lay  aside." 

"  Adrienne,"  he  answered  solemnly,  "  the  robe 
of  the  Holy  Church  I  have  loved  .  .  .  and  love 

it  still ;  but  to  the  cassock,  once  laid  aside,  there 

194 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

is  no  return.  I  will  step  from  an  old  world  into 
a  new,  a  better  and  a  fairer ;  and  with  your  dear 
hand  to  help  and  guide,  no  shadow  of  regret 
need  ever  darken  the  door  of  peace  and  purity." 

She  raised  her  lips  to  his.  "Then,  like  all 
women,  I  will  trust.  The  past  we  will  bury — I 
with  you  and  you  with  me.  When  Paris  is  left 
behind,  the  phantom  of  our  other  selves  shall  be 
locked  within  its  gates.  We  will  cease  to  speak 
of  what  has  been,  and  build  our  hope  on  present 
joy  and  joys  to  come.  Shall  we,  my  Leon? " 

"Yes,  Adrienne,"  he  murmured  tenderly; 
"  yes." 

For  a  short  half  hour  they  sat  together  in 
their  new-found  happiness:  the  priest,  who 
would  leave  a  mistaken  calling  as  rashly  as  he 
entered  it  ten  years  before,  and  the  Poppy 
Flower,  who  had  laughed  aloud  in  her  pit  of 
shame,  and  climbed  to  repentance  on  a  rope  of 
lies. 

Their  plans  were  quickly  laid:  they  would 
slip  away  from  Paris  on  the  following  night,  go 
to  Calais,  and  thence  to  England,  the  priest  in 
disguise,  and  she  also  if  occasion  so  demanded. 
An  hour  was  appointed  for  departure,  and  she 

i95 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

gave  him  a  key  by  which  to  enter  in  case  her 
maid  should  be  asleep.  Then  Leon  rose  and 
bade  her  a  short  farewell. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  whispered,  "  for  a  little  while 
— and  then " 

"And  then  for  our  sweet,  new  world,"  she 
answered,  with  a  smile.  "  A  last,  sad  tear  for 
the  old  one  left  behind  .  .  .  and  life  will  begin 
anew." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  ten- 
derly, passed  from  the  home  of  the  Poppy 
Flower,  and  bent  his  buoyant  steps  toward  the 
distant  House  of  Peace. 

Le  Corbeau  watched  him  from  her  balcony 
till  he  turned  and  waved  his  hand  and  his  robe 
was  hidden  from  her  tear-blind  eyes.  Then 
slowly  she  returned ;  slowly  one  by  one  her  can- 
dles were  extinguished,  and  darkness  shut  her 
old,  familiar  room  from  sight. 

A  something  stirred  within  her  heart— rest- 
less, strange.  It  burned,  it  glowed,  it  shook  her 
in  its  might,  till  her  trembling  limbs  gave  way 
beneath  her  and  she  fell  on  her  knees  in  prayer. 
.  .  .  The  first  for  many  a  year — a  prayer  to 

Leon's  God,  through  the  mercy  of  the  Holy 

196 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


Virgin.  A  poor,  weak  prayer,  in  stumbling,  ill- 
selected  words,  torn  from  a  stained  but  repent- 
ant breast,  and  laid  in  fear  at  the  footstool  of 
the  Father's  pity.  A  broken  prayer — broken  by 
a  woman's  sobs,  which  she  and  the  Mother, 
alone,  could  understand. 


197 


CHAPTER    XIV 

ON  the  following  day  Le  Corbeau  made  the 
last  arrangement  for  her  flight.  She  loosely 
packed  such  light  apparel  as  was  necessary  for 
the  journey;  the  rest  she  would  leave  behind. 
Among  her  jewels  was  a  faded  leathern  case 
containing  gems  which  her  mother  once  had 
worn,  and  these  she  sold  for  a  modest  sum  to 
guard  against  a  chance  contingency.  There 
were  other  gems,  gems  of  price,  a  glittering 
store,  enough  to  fill  the  hollow  of  her  palms,  but 
she  flung  them  from  her,  with  a  blush  of  shame, 
cleansing  her  hands. 

The  day  slipped  by;  the  twilight  deepened 
into  dusk,  and  at  last  but  an  hour  remained  till 
the  coming  of  the  priest.  Le  Corbeau  waited 
in  her  candle-lit  salon — waited,  with  a  wildly 
beating  heart,  for  what  the  future  held  in  its 
tight-closed  hand.  Would  the  fingers  open  at 
the  voice  of  love  and  shower  happiness  into 
her  lifted  arms?  Would  memory  of  the  priest 

and  Fabien  sleep  in  the  cradle  of  a  darker  mem- 

198 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

ory  which  she  herself  must  leave  behind  ?  As 
if  in  answer  to  her  thought  a  shout  of  laughter 
burst  from  the  street  below,  and  Le  Corbeau 
listened,  whitening  to  the  lips.  She  knew  that 
sound — La  Rose — Lizette — the  rest  of  them! 
Some  one  beat  impatiently  upon  the  outer  door. 
It  opened,  and  she  heard  the  scramble  of  their 
feet  upon  the  stair  and  the  light-lipped  chatter 
of  the  creatures  who,  alas !  had  been  her  friends. 
She  arose  and  listened  in  trembling  dread  as  the 
sounds  drew  nearer  still,  and  then,  with  a  ges- 
ture of  repulsion  and  disgust,  turned  and  fled 
to  the  safety  of  her  chamber. 

In  they  trooped,  a  dozen  reckless  cavaliers 
and  as  many  freshly  powdered  ladies,  laughing, 
jesting,  in  the  loose-tongued  freedom  of  the 
demi-monde. 

"  A  la  bonne  heure  !  "  La  Rose  cried  merrily. 
"  Tis  twenty  years,  it  seems,  since  I  saw  Cor- 
beau." 

"  That's  nothing,"  laughed  Lizette;  "  the  time 
we've  lost  is  soon  made  up  again.  Oh,  but  I 
long  for  the  flying  corks  once  more,  and  to  see 
the  golden  wine  .  .  .  Pop !  F-i-zzzzz !  Ah ! " 

"  See  it ! "  giggled  Violette.  "  Mon  Dieu,  I'd 
199 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

rather  taste  it !  Raymond,"  she  called,  "  in  the 
name  of  thirst,  have  you  dared  to  lose  that 
precious  basket  ? " 

"Coming!"  Raymond  shouted,  and  entered 
with  a  laden  basket  on  his  arm,  while  the 
company  gathered  clamorously  about  him. 

"  Come,"  said  La  Rose,  "  we'll  dispense  with 
serving  maids  to-night,  and  each  must  lend  a 
hand  in  the  interest  of  Le  Corbeau's  feast." 

"  Delightful ! "  tittered  Violette ;  "  a  cosy  sup- 
per, enfamille,  on  the  prodigal's  return." 

"  True,"  assented  Raymond,  as  he  handed  out 
the  wine  and  fruit,  "  but  I  wish  we  had  Duchant, 
the  poet.  Ma  foi,  what  a  splendid  substitute 
he'd  make  for  the  fatted  calf ! " 

This  sally  was  met  by  a  burst  of  merriment, 
and  all  agreed  that  the  dish  would  be  a  perfect 
poem  in  itself;  but  here  their  jest  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  noise  of  scuffling  feet  upon  the 
stairs,  and  a  woman's  voice  rose  shrill  and  an- 
gry: 

"  Let  me  go,  I  tell  you !  I  will  scream ! 
Peste!  Let  me  go!" 

The  company  paused  to  listen,  and  heard 

Duchant  himself  reply : 

200 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


"  Come  on,  my  little  wild-cat !  Diable  !  You 
shall  come  with  me,  even  if  I'm  forced  to  lift 
you  on  my  back !  Come  on ! " 

"  Now,  by  St.  Dunstan,"  Raymond  laughed, 
"the  fatted  calf  is  here  in  answer  to  my 
prayer." 

The  door  flew  open,  and  the  poet  struggled 
in,  dragging  by  the  hand  a  flushed  and  rumpled 
girl — small,  scarce  grown,  but  angry  as  a  routed 
wasp. 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  cried  the  company,  as  they 
pressed  around  Duchant.  "  Where  did  you  find 
the  child  ? "  and  a  score  of  other  excited  ques- 
tions, fired  in  swift  succession.  The  rhymester 
grinned. 

"Who  is  she?  Faith!  I've  not  the  faintest 
notion,  and  that's  the  drollest  part  of  it.  As  I 
stood  upon  the  door-step,  she  stopped  and  asked 
that  I  direct  her  to  Mademoiselle  Dufresnoy, 
who—  There !  Stop  pulling ! " 

"Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!"  the  girl  still 
cried,  as  she  tugged  to  free  herself,  then  turning 
to  the  group  of  gentlemen,  she  asked  appeal- 
ingly:  "Ah,  messieurs,  you  will  help  me,  will 
you  not?  I  came  to  bring  a  hat  and  feather  to 

201 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


Ma'm'selle  Dufresnoy — a  hat  from  my  mother's 
shop  —  Madame  Cigogne,  the  milliner.  He 
caught  me — this  ugly  man — he  caught  me  by 
the  hand."  Again  she  struggled  to  loose  the 
hold  upon  her  wrist.  "  Let  go !  Let  go ! " 

"  Stop  it,  you  little  beggar ! "  Duchant  com- 
manded, then  pursued  his  explanation:  "  I  told 
her  that  I  knew  no  mademoiselle  of  such  a 
name ;  but  I  saw  that  she  was  saucy  and  would 
make  rich  sport  for  Le  Corbeau's  feast,  and  so 
I — er — and  so  I  asked  her  in." 

"  I'm  not  a  beggar,  nor  am  I  saucy!  Let  me 
go!" 

La  Rose  stepped  forward.  "  Let  her  go, 
Duchant,  you  bruise  her  wrist." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  the  captor  laughed.  "  The  pris- 
oner's mine.  I  caught  the  little  monkey,  and 
she  shall  not  get  away." 

"  Little  monkey,  eh? "  the  girl  flashed  angrily. 
"  Then  I'll  show  you,  sir,  how  a  monkey  bites ! " 
And  with  a  lightning  swoop  she  sank  'her  teeth 
in  the  poet's  hand. 

"  Christi,  she  has  bitten  me ! "  screeched  Du- 
chant, as  he  loosened  his  hold  and  nursed  his 

afflicted  fist. 

202 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  And  serve  you  right,"  said  Raymond,  with 
a  laugh,  which  was  joined  by  all  the  gentle- 
men. 

"She's  bitten  deep,  the  beggar!"  cried  Du- 
chant,  and  stepped  threateningly  toward  the 
girl;  but  Raymond  interposed. 

"  Come,  come,  Duchant,"  he  said,  "  you'll  not 
go  mad  from  a  little  pinch  like  this.  Indeed, 
monsieur,  it  should  be  a  pleasure  to  be  bitten  by 
such  pretty  teeth."  He  turned,  with  a  smile,  to 
the  trembling  girl:  "  Eh,  Poupee? " 

"Ah!  It  is  you,  Monsieur  Delese!"  she 
chirped  delightedly.  "  Oh,  ho !  I  have  a 
friend ! "  And  she  ran  to  his  protection,  while 
the  laughing  ladies  jeered  him  mercilessly. 

"  Fie,  fie,  monsieur !"  they  cried.  "Another 
cat  has  jumped  its  bag!  And  a  woman  untied 
the  string!"  And  Raymond  found  himself  the 
target  for  an  hundred  jesting  shots. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  laughed.  "  We  are  friends, 
Poupee  and  I,  great  friends.  But  come— a  glass 
of  wine  for  the  valiant  little  prisoner!" 

"  No,  no,  monsieur,"  Poupee  protested. 
"  Ma'm'selle  is  waiting  for  her  hat  and  feather, 

and  will  scold  me  for  my  tardiness." 

203 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  But  only  one,  Poupee,"  urged  Raymond, 
"  only  a  little  glass,  then  I  myself  will  see  you 
safe  to  ma'm'selle's  door." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  monsieur,"  she  said,  and 
clapped  her  hands.  "  You  are  good — so  good 
to  me." 

She  drank  her  wine,  and  turned  to  leave,  but 
La  Rose  detained  her. 

"  Wait !  You  must  pay  a  ransom  before  you 
go.  Prisoners  always  do,  you  know.  Can  you 
sing,  child  ? " 

"  Yes — yes — ma'm'selle,  but 

"  A  song !  A  song ! "  they  urged,  and  formed 
a  ring  about  her ;  so,  seeing  that  protest  availed 
her  nothing,  Poupee  sang  a  saucy  little  air,  to 
the  keen  delight  of  her  merry  listeners. 

"  Vive  Poup'ee,  le  petit  singe  !  "  laughed  Mon- 
sieur Chatillon,  and  raised  his  glass;  and  the 
cheer  still  echoed  when  Raymond  and  the  little 
milliner  had  reached  the  street. 

"  Come,"  called  La  Rose,  when  the  noise  had 
in  some  degree  subsided.  "We  must  get  the 
feast  in  readiness.  Has  any  one  seen  Corbeau  ? 
I  vow  I  had  quite  forgotten  her." 

"  Lizette  has  gone  to  look  for  her,"  said  Vio- 
204 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

lette.  "  I  suppose  she  was  dressing  when  we 
came.  Ah !  Here  she  is ! " 

Le  Corbeau  entered,  but  without  that  joyous 
smile  of  welcome  which  her  former  friends  an- 
ticipated. 

"  Welcome  home ! "  called  Violette,  effusively. 

A  shout  arose.  "  Corbeau !  Corbeau !  Long 
live  the  queen  of  love!"  And  several  gentle- 
men began  to  sing,  while  the  guests  pressed 
closely  around  the  prodigal. 

"  There,  there,"  Le  Corbeau  said,  in  ill-con- 
cealed annoyance ;  "  don't  sing,  I  beg  you ;  it— 
it  hurts  my  ears." 

"  We  are  making  ready  a  feast  for  you,"  cried 
Violette,  "  and  such  a  feast !  There  is  wine  and 
fruit  and ' 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  Le  Corbeau  interrupted ; 
"but  not  so  loud,  please;  and— don't  crowd 
around  me — it — it ' 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  La  Rose. 
"  You  seem  so  different 

"We  only  thought  to  please  you,"  snapped 
Lizette. 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  you're  so— so  noisy.  .  .  .  You 
need  not  shout  and  scream.  It— it  annoys  me." 

205 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Le  Corbeau  crossed  to  her  lounge  and  sank 
upon  it  wearily.  A  painful  pause  ensued,  and 
the  wonder-stricken  guests  watched  furtively  and 
whispered  among  themselves. 

Monsieur  Duval  stepped  forward  with  a  glass 
of  wine,  and  spoke  in  not  ungentle  tones: 
"  Drink  this,  Corbeau ;  'twill  serve,  I  trust,  to 
raise  your  spirits." 

"  Thank  you — no,"  she  answered  with  a  ges- 
ture of  impatience.    "  I  do  not  care  for  it.     I— 
take  it  away,  please  ..." 

"  A  sweet,  sweet  humour  she  is  in,"  whispered 
La  Rose  to  Violette.  "  So  appreciative  of  our 
proffered  kindness." 

"  Yes,"  the  other  laughed.  "  The  Good  Sa- 
maritan might  have  taught  her  better  manners. 
By  the  way,  I'll  ask  about  her  capture."  She 
turned,  with  a  smirk,  and  called :  "  Come,  what 
of  the  handsome  priest  ?  You  have  not  told  us 
yet." 

"Yes,  tell  us,"  the  others  chimed.  "  Did  the 
father  convert  Corbeau,  or  has  Monsieur,  the 
Devil,  gained  a  new  disciple?  Where  is  your 
cloak  and  cowl?" 

Thus  they  questioned,  jokingly,  their  coarse- 
206 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

ness  grating  like  a  rasp  upon  her  nerves ;  but 
she  made  no  answer  to  the  bantering  gibes, 
submitting  mutely  to  the  torture  of  their 
tongues. 

"  You  seem  to  have  lost  that  cooing  voice  of 
yours,"  sneered  Violette.  "  Did  you  also  lose 
five  hundred  thousand  francs,  my  dear?" 

Le  Corbeau  rose  from  her  seat  in  hopeless- 
ness, muttering  between  her  teeth :  "  I  cannot 
stand  it !  I  cannot !  "  She  turned  to  her  guests 
with  a  stammering  apology :  "  My  friends — I 
know  that  you  have  come  with  the  best  intent ; 
I  know  that  what  you  have  done  is — is  for  my 
pleasure.  I — I  appreciate — but  I'm  ill — my 
head  is  dizzy — I— 

Here  Raymond  entered,  and  she  crossed  and 
met  him  at  the  door. 

"A  word  with  you!"  She  took  her  friend 
aside,  and  begged,  in  a  panting  whisper:  "  Ray- 
mond, in  the  name  of  pity,  take  them  away! 
They  will  drive  me  mad — mad,  I  tell  you! 
From  head  to  heel  my  nerves  are  quivering!" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  understand.  I  was 
wrong  to  let  them  come."  He  turned  to  La 

Rose  and  asked:   "Can  we  not  postpone"  our 

207 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


feast?  Le  Corbeau  is  greatly  indisposed  and 
wishes  to  be  quiet." 

"  Hmp ! "  sniffed  Violette.  "  Corbeau  is  in  a 
nasty  temper.  That's  where  the  trouble  lies." 

"  We'll  leave  her  to  her  prayers  and  beads," 
said  La  Rose,  with  a  toss  of  her  fluffy  head. 
"  The  beads  upon  our  wine  are  flat,  it  seems. 
Come,  we'll  have  our  feast  without  the  gentle 
sister."  She  courtesied  mockingly.  "We'll 
leave  thee  for  the  nonce,  O  Mother  Superior ! " 
And  the  women's  laughter,  which  echoed 
through  the  room,  was  shrill  and  bitter. 

"  Raymond  .  .  .  please — "  Le  Corbeau  des- 
perately implored. 

He  whispered  to  La  Rose,  and  besought  her 
aid  in  dispersing  the  guests  without  delay,  but 
when  his  back  was  turned  Lizette  said,  spite- 
fully: 

"  I  see,  Corbeau ;  you  are  weary  of  our  com- 
pany. You've  grown  too  good  for  us!  But 
suppose,  my  dear,  we  leave  you  the  wine.  .  .  .  I 
swear  you  are  not  too  good  for  that ! " 

"  Lizette,"  Le  Corbeau  answered,  with  an 
effort  to  be  calm,  "  I  have  no  wish  to  be  unkind, 

and  if  I  seem  so,  believe  me,  I  am  sorry.    I 

208 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 
have  told  you  I  am  ill  and  wish  to  rest.    I — 

Once  more  she  turned  to  Raymond,  plead- 
ingly: "Raymond,  .  .  .  will  they  never  go  ?" 

She  crossed  the  room  and  dropped  upon  her 
lounge  in  utter  weariness,  while  Raymond 
sought  to  soothe  the  angered  ladies,  whose 
vanity  resented,  hotly,  what  they  termed  a  flout 
to  their  well-meant  ministrations.  With  many 
a  sneering  undertone  and  spiteful  glance  the 
hamper  was  refilled  with  the  fruit  and  wine,  and 
at  last  the  uninvited  guests  filed  slowly  out  in 
ruffled  dignity,  and  the  bold,  harsh  clatter  of 
their  tongues  was  stilled. 

As  Raymond,  the  last  to  leave,  was  passing 
out,  Le  Corbeau  caught  his  hand. 

"Not  you,"  she  whispered,  "but  they— the 
others— set  me  shuddering.  Ah,  my  friend,  if 
you  only  knew ! " 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  he  answered  gently. 
"To-morrow  I  will  come  alone.  Till  then, 
good-bye." 

She  raised  his  hand  and  touched  it  with  her 

lips. 

"  Au  revoir,  dear  Raymond.  .  .  .  Au  revoir'.' 
14  209 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


When  Raymond,  too,  had  gone,  the  one  of 
all  her  friends  who  still  seemed  near  to  her,  she 
flung  her  windows  open  and  breathed  the  fresh, 
pure  air  in  grateful  gasps. 

"  Ah,  well,"  she  sighed,  "  'tis  the  last  of  them 
.  .  .  and  I  shall  not  grieve."  She  crossed  to  a 
seat  and  sat  in  reverie.  "  To-night  I  will  leave 
it  all  behind  me,  and  forget  .  .  .  forget  that  I 
was  once  a  part  of  it,  and  did  not  stifle  in  its 
poisoned  atmosphere.  .  .  .  How  strange  a  thing 
is  love,  .  .  .  teaching  us  to  loathe  a  life  which 
once  was  dear  to  us,  ...  whispering  that,  after 
all,  another  life  may  wait  beyond — a  better  .  .  . 
and  a  fairer.  .  .  .  Perhaps — perhaps " 


210 


CHAPTER  XV 

ONCE  more  Le  Corbeau  waited  for  the  com- 
ing of  the  priest.  She  heard  a  footstep,  and  her 
heart  beat  faster,  but  chilled  as  her  name  was 
called : 

"Corbeau." 

"The  last,"  she  muttered,  "and  the  worst! 
This  at  least  I  hoped  that  fate  would  spare 
me." 

Jardin  came  slowly  forward ;  his  words  were 
gently  spoken,  and  without  his  drawl. 

"Your  pardon,  madame,  that  I  entered  un- 
announced. I  was  asked  by  Duchant  to  join 
his  friends  an  hour  ago,  but  I  did  not  care  to 
come  with — with  the  rest  of  them." 

Le  Corbeau  answered  coldly.  She  neither 
rose  nor  looked  at  him. 

"  I  congratulate  you  upon  your  taste.  You 
were  fortunate  to  escape  the  noisy  clatter  of 
their  tongues  .  .  .  and  the  wit— grand  Dieu— 
the  wit!" 

211 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


The  doctor  nodded.  "  At  worst,  I  might  have 
helped  to  quiet  them." 

"  No !  Nothing  would  quiet  them.  Nothing ! 
Their  voices  were  loud  and  shrill  and  coarse  and 
vulgar.  I  could  not  stand  it.  I  fear  I  was  very 
rude,  for  I  sent  them  all  away.  I  wished  to  be 
alone." 

"  I  see,"  the  doctor  smiled.  "  And  does  the 
empress  still  hold  that  wish  ? " 

"Monsieur  has  said  it.  ...  /did  not." 

"  Well  answered,"  laughed  Jardin.  "  Your 
reward  shall  take  the  form  of  a  short-lived  visit. 
I  came,  Corbeau,  partly  on  business — partly 
pleasure — for  I'm  glad  that  you've  returned, 
more  glad  than  I  can  say." 

"  And  your  quarrel  with  Raymond  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  I  called  upon  him  yesterday,  apologized  for 
my  boorish  conduct,  and  asked  forgiveness — as 
I  hope  for  yours." 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  "  I  thank  you,  Jar- 
din  ;  there  is  good  in  your  nature,  after  all." 

"A  little,  yes,"  the  doctor  granted;  "but  a 
sickly  plant  at  best.  There  is  still  another  mat- 
ter which  prompts  my  coming." 

212 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"And  that?" 

"  Oh,  a  small  affair.  I  came  to  ask  if  I  owed 
five  hundred  thousand  francs." 

"  You  owe  me  nothing." 

"  H-m-m !    Then  you  did  not  win  the  priest? " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  answered 
calmly: 

"  I  won." 

"  Then  I  fail  to  see  the  matter  in  your  light," 
the  doctor  argued.  "  If  the  wager  is  fairly 
lost,  I,  for  my  part,  have  no  desire  to  shirk 
its  payment;  but  as  a  loser  I  would  ask  one 
favour." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  should  like  to  witness  the  completion  of 
your  conquest.  Why  could  I  not  remain  here 
in  concealment?— say,  behind  that  screen — and 
when  the  eager  love  came  I  could  see  and  hear." 
The  doctor  laughed.  "St.  Anthony  making 
love !  How  droll ! " 

Le  Corbeau's  eyelids  narrowed  as  she  an- 
swered in  pained  reproach:  "  That,  Jardin,  is  a 
thought  unworthy  .  .  .  even  of  you." 

A  wave  of  colour  dyed  the  doctor's  cheek. 
"  Forgive  me,"  he  begged,  contritely.  "  I  spoke 

213 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


without  thought  or  courtesy.  Forgive  me — we 
will  say  no  more  about  it.  But  the  wager " 

"  There  is  no  wager." 

"And  why?" 

"  What  is  done  is  done,  .  .  .  but  we  need  not 
make  our  shame  more  pitiful." 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "  I  fail  to 
follow." 

"  Jardin,"  she  answered,  with  slow  impressive- 
ness,  "  there  was  once  a  man  who  betrayed  his 
Master  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver,  .  .  .  but  when 
his  master  was  taken  ...  he  cast  the  money  on 
the  floor  of  the  temple,  .  .  .  went  forth,  and 
hanged  himself.  .  .  .  You  owe  me  nothing!" 

The  doctor  leaned  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
in  earnest  thought. 

"  Ah,  Corbeau,"  he  murmured,  "  I  have 
wronged  you  deeply,  .  .  .  but  I  loved  more 
deeply  than  I  wronged.  Is  it  yet  too  late  to  re- 
pair the  evil?" 

She  nodded  sadly.  "Yes,  Jardin,  .  .  .  too 
late." 

"  But  could  you  not  be  happy  in  my  love  ? " 
he  urged,  as  he  rose  and  stood  beside  her.  "  I 

know  your  secret  all  too  well — the  Due  de  la 

214 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Fere,  who  wrecked  your  purity  and  aroused 
your  hatred  against  my  sex — bitter,  bitter,  but 
just,  perhaps.  I,  too,  am  bitter,  because  I  love 
without  the  seed  of  hope ;  but  with  you  to  help 
me  I  could  be  a  different  man,  gentler,  kinder, 
more  generous  to  you  and  to  myself.  I  seem 
like  a  drowning  boy  who  stretches  out  his  arms 
—for  you  to  save.  .  .  .  Help  him!  ...  or  he 
sinks  beneath  the  surf  of  his  own  despair." 

"Ah,  Jardin,"  she  pleaded,  "think— your 
home— your  wife— don't  make  it  harder  for  me 
to  bear." 

"  Home ! "  he  repeated  slowly.  "  I  have  no 
home.  To-day  my  house  should  be  a  house  of 
mourning.  My  wife  ...  is  dead." 

"Dead!"  Le  Corbeau  echoed.  "Oh!  .  .  . 
I'm  sorry"— and  she  rose  impulsively  and  came 
toward  him—"  so  sorry,  my  poor  Jardin." 

The  doctor  raised  his  hand.  "  And  I  ... 
am  free!  Free  to  offer  you  the  home  which 
you  alone  can  make— wealth— all  the  love  of  my 
heart  and  soul,  ...  and  only  ask  that  you  save 
me  from  myself." 

Le  Corbeau  answered  gently:  "Jardin,  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  unkind,  but  I  have  never  loved 

215 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

you.  Why  pretend  it  ?  What  cruelty  to  give 
myself  to  you — even  as  your  wife !  I  could  not 
love  you  as  you  would  wish,  and  if  I  did  not, 
your  life  would  be  more  bitter  still." 

"  How  different  you  are,"  he  mused,  "  from 
the  old  Corbeau ! " 

"  Yes,"  she  sighed,  "  the  old  Corbeau  is  gone, 
I  trust  .  .  .  forever." 

The  doctor  caught  his  breath.  "  I  think  I 
understand.  .  .  .  You  love  the  priest!"  She 
turned  away  without  response.  "  Answer  me ! " 
he  cried,  and  gripped  her  arm.  "  The  truth ! " 

She  freed  herself  and  looked  him  squarely  in 
the  eye;  her  tone  was  calm  and  without  a 
tremour: 

"  I  love  him." 

Jardin  returned  her  look  in  sullen  silence; 
his  strong  hands  clenched,  his  thin  lips  stretched 
across  his  teeth,  inflexible  and  dry. 

"  Listen,  my  friend,"  Le  Corbeau  urged,  in  a 
saddened  tone,  "  I  have  never  in  my  life  caused 
aught  but  sorrow  and  unhappiness  to  you — to 
others — to  all  who  came,  unasked  or  undesired. 
Still,  my  nature  holds  another  side  which  I  have 

hidden,  even  from  myself ;  and  if  now  I  can  cast 

216 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

the  evil  shell  and  begin  anew,  would  it  not  be 
better — better  for  us  both  ? " 

The  doctor  sank  into  his  chair,  his  head 
drooped  forward  on  his  breast. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  "  I 
do  not  know,  ...  for  I've  eaten  of  the  poppy 
flower  .  .  .  and  the  drug  is  in  the  blood." 

"  To-morrow,"  she  said,  unguardedly,  "  I  am 
leaving  France  forever." 

The  doctor  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  a  stifled 
curse : 

"With  him?    No!    No/n 

"  I  did  not  say  with  him." 

"No,"  he  retorted,  roughly;  "but  the  truth 
for  once  has  tripped  a  falsehood  on  your  tongue." 

She  passed  his  brutal  speech,  wijh  one  re- 
proachful glance,  and  continued  gently: 

"  What  I  have  said  may  at  first  seem  hard, 
but  some  day  you  will  thank  me  from  your 
heart.  If  you  have  done  me  wrong,  'tis  past- 
forgiven,  if  you  will ;  and  when  we  say  good-bye, 
I  would  say  it  as  a  friend,  leaving  no  thought 
behind  to  cause  you  bitterness."  From  her 
finger  she  slipped  a  ring.  "  Wear  this,  Jardin, 
for  my  sake.  Look ;  it  is  a  shield  of  black  with 

217 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

a  single  pearl ;  and  when  in  after  days  you  see 
it,  it  may  serve  to  remind  you  that  though  Le 
Corbeau's  life  was  bad  .  .  .  there  was  still  one 
gleam  of  good."  She  placed  the  circlet  in  his 
hand.  "  You  will  wear  it,  my  friend." 

"  No ! "  he  cried,  in  a  passionate  burst  of  rage, 
and  flung  it  fiercely  to  the  floor.  "  No !  You 
tell  me  you  have  changed.  A  lie!  ...  You 
have  wrecked  my  life,  and  you  glory  in  it !  You 
have  made  my  nights  a  torture  and  my  days  a 
curse !  I  have  given  you  the  love  of  a  crawling 
slave,  but  you  are  weary  of  it !  There  are  still 
more  souls  to  sap !  More !  More !  I  offer  you 
my  name — my  honour — and  you  toss  me  aside 
like  a  tattered  glove !  You  give  me  a  ring  in 
memory  of  the  good  in  you !  The  good ! "  He 
flung  out  his  hands  and  laughed — laughed  bit- 
terly. '  The  virtues  of  a  serpent ! " 

"Jardin!" 

"  And  do  you  think,"  he  snarled,  "  that  I  will 
stand  meekly  by  and  see  you  give  a  heart  that 
is  mine  to  this  whining  priest?  An  amorous 
apostate — this  shaven  hypocrite — a  traitor  to  his 
Church- 

"  Jardin— stop ! " 

218 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


'"You  tell  me  in  that  fawning  voice  of  yours 
that  to-morrow  you  will  flee  from  France  with 
him  !  You  will  give  him  a  love  that  is  mine ! 
Mine,  I  tell  you !  Mine !  I  say  you  shall  not ! " 

"  You  dare " 

"  Shall  not !  I  will  go  to  the  Abbe  Sebastian 
and  tell  him  of  the  pious  work  of  his  Good  Sa- 
maritan ! " 

"  They  would  fling  you  into  the  street ! " 
"  I  will  go  to  the  priest  himself  and  tell  him 
what  you  are ! " 

"  He  would  not  believe  you." 
" Then,  by  his  God,  .  .  .  I'll  prove  it!" 
With  a  cry  Le  Corbeau  raised  her  hand.    He 
struck  it  down;   and  as  though  the  blow  had 
loosed  a  Moloch  in  his  blood,  he  gripped  her 
throat  and  crushed  her  in  his  savage  strength 
across  the  lounge. 

"  Jardin ! "  she  gasped.  "  You're  killing  me ! " 
Deeper  the  tightening  fingers  sank  into  her 
yielding  flesh ;  she  fought  for  breath— for  life ; 
one  groping  hand  beat  wildly,  caught  on  the 
hilt  of  the  poniard  in  his  belt,  and  closed.  She 
struck— struck  once— and  blindly.  He  loosed 
his  grip  and  scuffled  to  his  feet,  reeled  back- 

219 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

ward,  clutched  at  the  edge  of  her  heavy  screen 
and  dragged  it  with  him — lurched — and  fell, 
coughing,  to  the  floor.  Le  Corbeau  stared  in 
wonder  from  where  she  lay.  He  raised  himself 
upon  his  arm,  stretched  out  his  hand  in  the  last, 
mute  declaration  of  a  passion  unsubdued, 
slumped  on  his  side,  and  forgot  the  hunger  in 
his  heart. 

Slowly  the  woman  crawled  across  the  floor ; 
her  hand  crept,  trembling,  to  the  spot  where 
once  her  head  had  lain.  No  answering  flutter 
now!  No  rise  and  fall  to  give  the  lie  to  his 
wide-eyed  unresponse ! 

"  Leon  ! "  she  called,  in  a  choking,  sob-torn 
cry.  "Leon,  .  .  .  I have  killed  him,  /" 

She  knelt  beside  the  stricken  man  and  toyed 
with  his  passive  fingers,  babbling  foolishly : 

"  Jardin,  Jardin,  you  drove  me  to  this  thing ! 
Why  did  you  do  it — why  ?  I  did  not  mean  to 
hurt  you — no — I  knew  not  what  I  did.  You 
will  believe  me  .  .  .  will  you  not,  Jardin?  I 
could  not  love  you,  and  you  tried  to  rob  me  of 
my  Leon.  And  you  did,  Jardin.  I  cannot  see 
him  now  .  .  .  with  your  blood  upon  my  hands. 

I'll  go,  Jardin;   but  I'll  go  ...  alone.     Leon 

220 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

will  be  sorry  when  I'm  gone,"  she  murmured 
pitifully,  "so  sorry  when  I'm  gone."  She  strug- 
gled to  her  feet  and  set  the  screen  before  him  to 
hide  his  sprawling  limbs  and  the  open  eyes. 

"Good-bye,  Jardin,  .  .  .  my  poor  Jar- 
din!  ..  ." 

She  paused  and  peered  behind  the  screen, 
shuddered,  and  swiftly  crossed  the  room.  Once 
more  she  turned  and,  moving  softly,  as  though 
she  feared  the  sleeper  might  awake,  blew  out 
her  candles,  leaving  but  one  to  burn,  like  a 
silent  warder  of  the  dead ;  then  she  fled  in  ter- 
ror from  the  hidden  thing  that  seemed  to  watch 
her  in  the  dark,  and  to  listen,  listen. 


221 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  candle's  flame  burned  faint  and  yellow, 
swayed  and  flared  in  the  open  window's  draught ; 
a  square  of  moonlight,  shaped  by  the  casement's 
frame,  crept  slowly  along  the  floor  toward  the 
screen,  and  Brother  Claudien — for  he  still  was 
clothed  in  his  priestly  robe — came  softly  through 
the  door  and  stood  where  the  moonbeams  fell. 

"  Adrienne ! "  he  called,  and  bent  his  ear  to 
listen.  "  Adrienne ! "  No  answer  came.  '  'Tis 
past  the  time,"  he  muttered,  "but,  doubtless, 
she's  preparing  for  the  journey — ours ! " 

For  a  moment  he  stood  in  silent  thought; 
thought  for  that  unknown  gate  which  was  open- 
ing to  his  knock ;  thought  for  the  cares  and  joys 
he  must  leave  behind  when  the  portal  closed. 
He  loosened  the  collar  of  his  robe,  revealing  the 
doublet  of  a  cavalier  beneath. 

"  In  love,"  he  murmured,  "  we  learn  ...  to 
forget" — he  took  a  fold  of  the  cassock  in  his 
hand — "and  this,  too,  must  be  forgotten.  .  .  . 

222 


He  loosened  the  collar  of  his  robe,  reveal- 
ing the  doublet  of  a  cavalier  beneath 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

But,  ah,  old  friend,  my  heart  is  heavy  at  the 
parting."  He  slipped  the  robe  from  an  arm  and 
shoulder  and  whispered  tenderly,  as  though  the 
garment  were  a  living  thing:  "You  have  cov- 
ered me  in  storm  and  sunshine,  shielded  me 
from  the  cold  and  heat.  .  .  .  You  have  clung 
to  me  in  happiness  and  sorrow,  prayers  and 
tears;  you  have  set  me  apart  from  other  men, 
and  marked  me  as  a  man  of  God.  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  a  flood  of  memory  comes  back  to  me — the 
bitter  and  the  sweet!  .  .  .  When  I  leave  you 
with  tender  reverence — sad — sincere,  I  step  from 
an  old  world  into  a  new,  .  .  .  the  old  world  filled 
with  prayer  and  penance,  the  incense  and  the 
grim  confessional,  where  the  febrile  spark  of  a 
few  good  deeds  is  smothered  in  a  throng  of 
countless  mortal  faults,  told,  sin  by  sin,  on  the 
rosary  of  time." 

He  drew  the  robe  from  his  other  arm,  but  held 
it  lovingly  against  his  breast. 

"  I  leave  the  old  world,  so  sad  and  yet  so  dear, 
so  lonely  and  yet  so  peaceful.  .  .  .  Farewell,  old 
friend.  ...  I've  reached  the  new  life's  gate— 
the  new  life  .  .  .  flooded  with  the  glory  of  a 

woman's  love." 

223 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  cassock  fell  and  Leon  la  Valiere  stepped 
over  it. 

"  Adrienne ! "  he  whispered.    "  Adrienne ! " 

He  lifted  his  arms  like  a  prisoner  set  free,  then 
slowly  they  sank  to  his  sides  again.  He  stooped 
and  raised  his  vestment  from  the  floor,  gently 
smoothing  its  rumpled  folds,  then  pressed  it  to 
his  lips. 

"  Love  asks  forgetfulness  of  all  save  love  alone. 
.  .  .  But  must  we  forget  .  .  .  so  soon?  .  .  .  No! 
.  .  .  God  forbid!  ...  I  leave  you,  but  your 
memory  shall  robe  my  breast  .  .  .  forever ! " 

He  glanced  about  the  room  for  a  hiding-place, 
and  walked  slowly  toward  the  screen.  "  Fare- 
well," he  murmured  tenderly,  and  once  more 
raised  the  cassock  to  his  lips,  then  placed  his 
hand  on  that  flimsy  barrier  which  stood  between 
his  earthly  happiness  and  the  sprawling  heap 
behind.  "  Farew — "  He  paused  and  shook 
his  head.  "  No,"  he  muttered,  "  'twould  tell  its 
story  to  those  who  found  it  there — the  robe 
abandoned — forgotten  promises  to  God — and 
faith  defiled,  .  .  .  and  I  cannot !  Cannot ! "  He 
turned  away.  "  No !  .  .  .  no,  dear  friend ; 

where  /  may  go,  there  shalt  thou  go  also ! " 

224 


As  he  turned,  Le  Corbeau  entered  hurriedly, 
wrapped  in  a  hooded  cloak.  She  crossed  the 
square  of  moonlight  toward  the  door  which  led 
to  the  street  below,  when  Leon  stepped  from  the 
shadow  of  the  screen.  A  stifled  scream  died, 
trembling,  on  her  lips,  and  she  shrank  before 
him,  white  and  shivering. 

"  Adrienne ! "  he  called,  as  he  sprang  toward 
her.  "  Adrienne,  it  is  I — Leon !  Forgive  me  if 
I  startled  you.  I  thought  to  find  you  waiting, 
and  I  entered  with  the  key  you  gave  me." 

She  answered  numbly:  "The  key  .  .  .  I  gave 
...  I  ...  don't  understand.  .  .  I  .  .  .  "  And 
she  would  have  fallen,  but  Leon  caught  her  in 
his  arms. 

"Adrienne!"  he  cried,  "you  are  ill!  What 
is  it?" 

"  No,  no,  no,— 'tis  nothing,"  she  denied.  "  I'm 

nervous— I— I "  She  started  and  raised  a 

shaking  finger  to  her  lip.  "  Did  you  hear— hear 

nothing?" 

"Adrienne,  my  child,  you    have  overtaxed 

your  strength,  I  fear.    Come,  ...  sit  here  and 

rest."     He  led  her  to  the  lounge  and  poured  a 

glass  of  wine.    "  Drink  this,"  he  coaxed,  "  'twill 

I  22> 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


strengthen  you.  .  .  .  There  .  .  .  that's  better! 
Is  it  not  good  ? " 

"  Yes  .  .  .  good  .  .  .  thank  you,"  she  replied 
in  a  halting  murmur,  then  irritably :  "  What  is 
that  ugly  thing?" 

"  Where,  dear  one? " 

"  There !  There !  You  hold  it  on  your  arm ! 
What  is  the  thing? " 

"  This  ? "  he  asked,  as  he  raised  his  folded 
cassock.  "It  is  the  robe,  Adrienne — the  robe 
which  I  have  laid  aside  for  you  .  .  .  forever." 

"For  me?  Forever?"  she  repeated,  miser- 
ably, then  hid  her  face  and  sobbed:  "  Oh,  Leon, 
Leon,  why  did  you  come  back — why — why— 

"To  take  you  with  me,  Adrienne;  but  don't 
talk  now,  it  only  excites  and  distresses  you. 
Try  to  rest  a  while,  and  soon  you  will  be  better. 
See  what  a  gentle  nurse  I'll  learn  to  be."  He 
seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  lounge.  "  Your 
head  on  my  shoulder — so.  My  arm  about  you 
to  protect  and  comfort ;  a  hand  to  smooth  your 
brow  —  how  hot  it  is,  poor  child;  you  have 
a  fever.  This,  too,  will  pass  with  rest  and 
quiet." 

She  leaned  on  his  breast,  with  eyelids  closed, 
226 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

and  strove  to  forget  the  hidden  horror,  in  the 
wondrous  tenderness  of  Leon's  love.  Again  he 
spoke,  in  his  gentle,  soothing  tones,  and  she 
nestled  closer  in  the  fortress  of  his  arms. 

"  How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  beside  you,  ...  to 
comfort  you  and  love  you ;  to  run  my  fingers 
lightly  through  your  hair— and  'tis  so  beautiful, 
Adrienne— to  know  that  you  are  mine,  all 
mine,  forever  and  a  day."  He  bent  his  head, 
and  her  dark  locks  stirred  beneath  his  kiss. 
"  See  how  the  moonlight  streams  into  your  win- 
dow, .  .  .  coming  like  a  fairy  goddess  to  tell  us 
of  our  happiness.  I  could  sit  contented  for 
hours  so,  .  .  .  reading  our  destiny  in  the  threads 
of  silver  moonlight  that  weave  a  story  of  love 
and  peace.  .  .  .  How  clear  and  beautiful  is  the 
story  written  there.  ...  I  see  the  long  gray 
road  that  leads  from  Paris — the  twinkling  lights 
of  a  thousand  dwarfish  cottages  that  dot  the 
country-side.  ...  I  hear  the  beat  of  the  horses' 
hoofs  timing  the  music  of  our  hearts.  Ah,  what 
a  song  of  happiness  the  hoof-beats  sing— bear- 
ing us  two  away  from  the  solemn  city — away 
under  the  stars,  each  one  a  tiny  torch  of  love 

that  seems  to  smile  and  beckon  us.    Away! 

227 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


Away  to  the  land  where  the  moonlight  ends  and 
the  dawn  of  love's  fair  day  is  breaking." 

"  Leon !  Leon ! "  she  murmured  softly,  and 
stroked  his  cheek  with  a  trembling  hand. 
'Twas  sweet  to  hear  his  voice,  in  words  which 
seemed  to  ease  the  torment  in  her  heart ;  but 
other  ears  were  listening,  listening,  and  she 
glanced  affrightedly  toward  the  screen.  Leon 
spoke  again: 

"  On,  on,  dear  Adrienne,  till  we  reach  at  last 
the  land  where  joy  and  peace  shall  blossom  as 
the  rose,  .  .  .  'where  death  comes  not,  nor  part- 
ing, and  no  tears.' " 

"My  Leon!" 

"  My  love ! "  he  whispered,  reverently,  and 
raised  his  head.  "See!  The  moon  has  gone 
behind  a  cloud,  casting  a  shadow  on  the  floor. 
.  .  .  Some  little  shadows  must  ever  come  to  us, 
but  will  only  serve  to  make  our  lives  the  brighter 
when  they  pass." 

"Ah,  Leon,"  she  answered,  nervously,  and 
her  eyes  grew  big  with  fear,  "  there  is  a  shadow 
greater  than  you  know — so  deep — so  dark 
—so  pitiless.  It  oppresses  me!  It  smothers 

me!" 

328 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Leon  smiled.  "  I  do  not  fear  it,  little  one, 
with  you  to  love.  Look !  Your  cloud  is  pass- 
ing even  now,  and  the  light  once  more  comes 
streaming  through  the  window.  Is  it  not  .beau- 
tiful, Adrienne?" 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  excitedly  protested ;  "  it 
frightens  me !  .  .  .  even  more  than  the  clouds." 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  laughed,  and  pinched  her 
cheek.  "  But  see  how  it  creeps — so  slowly— 
inch  by  inch,  as  if  some  phantom  hand  were 
reaching  stealthily  toward 

"  Leon !  Leon !  What  are  you  saying? "  she 
cried  out  nervously,  and  stared  at  the  light,  in 
shivering  dread. 

"Nothing,  dear  heart;  'tis  only  the  light  of 
love  which  seems  to  smile  for  us.  And  see  ... 
it  has  reached  your  screen."  Le  Corbeau 
gasped.  "It  creeps  and  creeps,  as  though  it 
would  look  behind  for  something  hidden  there." 
She  clung  to  him  in  shuddering  agony,  but  he 
could  not  see  her  face.  "  Look !  Look ! "  he 
cried,  "'twill  soon  envelop  it  in  a  flood  of— 
A-h!" 

The  white  moon  burst  through  a  wind-torn 
cloud  and  smeared  the  screen  with  her  pallid 

229 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

glory.  Le  Corbeau  screamed  and  leaped,  in 
frenzied  horror,  from  the  lounge. 

"Adrienne!  What  is  it?"  Leon  cried,  and 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

She  fought  him  for  release.  "  Let  me  go !  " 
she  shrilled.  "  Oh,  let  me  go !  I  can't  stay 
here!  God!  .  .  .  I'm  going  mad!" 

"Child,  child,"  he  questioned,  nervously, 
"  what  frightens  you  ?  Tell  me.  /  am  here  to 
shield  you,  dear  one." 

He  strove  to  soothe  her,  but  she  shrank  from 
his  embrace,  entreating  piteously:  "  Let  me  go ! 
Only  let  me  leave  this  room !  It  stifles  me !  It 
chokes  me  I  Leon,  ...  let  me  go ! " 

"Then  come,"  he  urged,  and  led  her  gently; 
"  a  carriage  waits  below  to  take  us  to  the  city 
wall  where  the  horses  wait.  The  cool,  fresh  air 
will  soon  revive  you.  Come." 

She  drew  back,  trembling.  "  No,  no,  no !  I 
can't!  I  can't!" 

"Cannot?"  he  questioned,  wonderingly. 

"No!  .  .  .  No!  Never!  Never!  Oh,  Leon, 
go  back  to  your  brotherhood  and  forget  that  I 
ever  lived.  .  .  .  Don't  ask  me  why — don't  try  to 

find  me  ...  only  go !     Go !     Go ! " 

230 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  studying  her  in 
grieved  surprise. 

"  Do  you — do  you  wish  it,  Adrienne  ? " 

"  I — I  wish  it,"  she  answered,  haltingly,  and 
turned  her  eyes  away. 

When  Leon  spoke  again,  his  words  came 
slowly,  while  the  man  was  struggling  in  the  grip 
of  a  growing  fear: 

"  You  have  said  you  were  not  ill,  .  .  .  and  yet 
you  wish  that  I  should  leave  you — now — and  for 
all.  Am  /the  cause?  Is  it — is  it  that  you  .  .  . 
so  soon  .  .  .  have  ceased  to  care  for  me  ?  .  .  . 
Can  this  be  true?  .  .  .  Answer  me!" 

"Dieu!  Can  I  tell  him  that?"  she  asked 
herself,  then  raised  her  eyes  to  his  and  faltered, 
coldly:  "I  do  not  love  you— I — I  have  never 
loved  you.  ...  Go  back  to  your  House  of 
Peace— forget — it  is  all  wrong  —  confused  - 
and " 

She  stopped ;  her  breaking  heart  could  lie  no 
more;  she  sank  in  a  huddled  heap,  her  arms 
outstretched  across  the  lounge,  and  sobbed  in 
the  pain  of  her  sacrifice. 

Leon  looked  down  upon  her  in  numb  despair. 
"  I  think  ...  I  understand,"  he  said.  "  Woman, 

231 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

woman,  what  have  you  done?  .  .  .  You,  whom 
I  loved  with  all  my  life  and  soul — better  than 
Heaven  itself, — and  it  is  a  lie !  You,  for  whom 
I  sacrificed  my  sacred  pledge  to  God  .  .  .  and 
this  ...  is  the  end ! " 

"  Leon,"  she  sobbed,  "  if  you  only  knew." 

"And  this  is  the  end,"  he  repeated  dully, 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked  away. 

"  Leon !  Leon !  Come  back ! "  she  called. 
"  I  cannot  be  left  alone ! "  She  rose  and  looked 
at  the  screen  in  terror.  "  I  dare  not !  .  .  . 
Leon  !  " 

He  paused,  in  pain  and  doubt,  and  returned 
reluctantly.  She  sought  to  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  but  he  stayed  her  with  a  firm,  restrain- 
ing hand.  She  caught  the  hand  and  held  it  in 
both  her  own,  murmuring,  brokenly: 

"  I  love  you,  Leon— love  you  enough  to  bear 
the  bruise  of  parting  .  .  .  for  your  sake.  'Twas 
all  for  you,  dear — no  selfish  thought 

"  Then  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  he  said.  "  If 
you  are  ill " 

"No,  no;  I  am  not  ill.  I'll  tell  you — every- 
thing, .  .  .  only  .  .  .  don't  leave  me,  Leon,  .  .  . 

don't  leave  me — here — this  place.  .  .  .  Forgive 

232 


(|?|)       A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

me,  if  you  can.  ...  I  tried  so  hard — and — and 
I  loved  you  so." 

Leon  watched  her,  silently,  a  question  in  his 
eyes,  as  she  fought  with  fear  and  hesitation : 

"  I — I — Leon,  you  seem  so  strange.  Put  on 
your  robe  again,  and  then,  perhaps,  'twill  make 
it  easier  ...  to  tell."  She  seated  herself  upon 
the  lounge  and  twisted  its  coverlet  in  her  nerv- 
ous hands.  "Leon,  .  .  .  I'll  keep  back  nothing 
—nothing — I —  Shut  the  window!  .  .  .  The 
moonlight — it  terrifies  me ! " 

He  crossed  and  drew  her  curtains  closely,  re- 
turned and  lit  the  candles  in  a  bracket  on  the 
wall. 

"  Put  on  your  robe,"  she  pleaded,  "  for  my 
sake,  Leon — will  you?" 

In  silence  he  hid  the  cavalier  beneath  the  cas- 
sock's folds,  and  wound  the  mantle  about  his 
shoulders,  then  stood  before  her— once  again  a 
priest. 

"  There,  'tis  done,"  he  said.  He  seated  him- 
self beside  her  and  took  her  hand.  "  Now,  tell 
me,  Adrienne." 

"  Leon  ..."      Her    voice    was    hard    and 

strained. 

233 


"Yes?  .  .  .  I'm  listening." 
"  Leon  ...  I  have  deceived  you." 
"  Deceived  me  ? " 

"Yes.  I'm  not  what  you  think  me — I'm  not 
Adrienne " 

"  Not  Adrienne ! "   he  gasped.     "  Then  who 

p» 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  Don't  ask  me.  That  I 
love  you  with  all  my  life  and  soul  is  true ;  but 
the  rest — but  the  rest —  Oh,  have  pity  on 
me " 

"  You  are  not  yourself ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
know  not  what  you  say ! " 

"  I  tell  you,"  she  answered,  in  the  same  hard 
tone,  "  I  tell  you  it  is  true.  I  was  a  woman  of 
the  world — heartless — bitter — living  a  life  of  evil 
recklessness " 

"A— h!" 

"  — a  woman  who  feared  neither  man  nor  devil 
—who  sought  for  happiness  in  sin  and  forgetful- 
ness  in  wine." 

"God/" 

"  I  won  your  love  because  of  a  wager — I " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  And  you  dare  to  tell 
me  this!"  he  cried.  "You!" 

234 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

She  cowered  beneath  the  fierceness  of  his 
mien,  as  though  she  feared  his  lifted  hand  would 
strike. 

"  But,  Leon,"  she  wailed,  "  he  drove  me  to  it. 
...  He  forced  me  with  all  his  cunning  wicked- 
ness. I  was  a  weak,  weak  woman — vain- 
thoughtless " 

"  Oh,   how  pitiful ! "    he  breathed,  in  scorn. 
"How  pitiful!" 
*"  Listen,  Leon " 

His  pale  lips  curled  in  harsh  contempt. 
"  And  so  you  won  the  love  of  a  simple  priest 
.  .  .  for  money  /" 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  the  money  I  refused. 
...  I  won  you,  it  is  true;  but  because  I  loved 
you.  It  changed  my  life — my  nature.  ...  I 
wanted  to  be  good.  ...  I  wanted  to  be  worthy 
of  you.  I  thought  we  could  leave  it  all  behind 
in  Paris  and  forget.  'Twas  not  the  wager, 
Leon,  but  because  I  loved  you." 

"  Loved  me ! "  he  laughed,  in  bitterness. 
"  Loved  me !  And  you  ask  me  to  believe  this  ! 
This  tangle  of  treacherous  deceit?  No,  no,  I 
cannot !  Cannot ! "  And  he  dropped  into  a  seat 
and  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands. 

235 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Again  Le  Corbeau  spoke,  but  fearfully: 
"  Leon,  I  speak  the  truth.  I  thought  with  you 
to  love  I  could  expurgate  the  past,  .  .  .  and  bury 
it  with  your  broken  vows  .  .  .  and  Fabien." 
She  sank  on  her  knees  beside  him.  "And  I'd 
love  you,  oh,  so  tenderly,  so  deeply  and  so 
long.  I'd  be  your  slave — your  drudge — "  He 
shook  his  head.  "  But  take  away  your  love," 
she  moaned,  "and  I'm  lost — body,  mind,  and 
soul ! " 

She  placed  a  timid  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
but  he  shrank  beneath  her  touch. 

"  Leon,"  she  pleaded,  "  did  you  not  tell  me 
once  what  your  dear  old  abbe  taught,  .  .  .  that 
if,  in  your  lives  of  toil  and  penance,  a  brother's 
pledge  to  Heaven  seemed  fruitless  and  unavail- 
ing, still,  if  he  saved  one  single  soul,  he  spent 
not  his  life  in  vain? " 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  she  called  to  him  from 
the  depth  of  her  yearning  love:  "Leon,  .  .  . 
save  me — save  me ! " 

He  did  not  speak,  but  his  hand  sought  hers, 
and  found  it.  Nearer  she  crept,  and  nearer  still. 
Her  Circean  arm  stole  gently  round  his  neck, 

and  she  held  him  with  her  eyes,  those  haunting 

236 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

eyes  which  had  broken  stronger  wills,  which 
glowed  with  passion,  swam  in  repentant  tears, 
and  begged  for  pity— pity  alone,  where  a  man 
might  give  his  blood. 

"  My  love  ...  my  love,"  she  moaned,  "  in 
your  kingly  heart  you  find  forgiveness  .  .  .  even 
for  Corbeau?" 

"  Corbeau?  "  he  mumbled,  stupidly,  and  stared 
in  vacant  wonderment.  "  Corbeau  ? " 

"  Yes,  Leon,  I  am  she — Corbeau." 

"You!  .  .  .  Great  God!" 

He  started  to  his  feet  and  pushed  her  from 
him  roughly ;  he  did  not  even  look  to  see  her 
fall,  but  stood  bewildered,  muttering,  in  dull 
monotony:  "Corbeau,  the  queen  of  sin!  ... 
Corbeau,  the  wanton ! " 

"  Forgive — forgive "  she  cried. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  turned  and  an- 
swered, harshly :  "  No !  A  woman  who  had 
fallen — her — I  might  forgive  ....  But  she,  the 
queen  of  sin — Corbeau !  No,  no,  it  cannot  be, 
it  cannot  be ! " 

"Leon!" 

Again  he  turned  upon  her,  in  scorn  and  bit- 
terness: "  Oh,  it  is  shameless!  You  crept  into 

237 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

my  sister's  home — the  creature  that  you  are; 
sullied  her  cheek  with  your  kisses — the  foulest 
lie  in  each  caress !  You  wrecked  my  life  .  .  . 
for  money !  .  .  .  Pah  /  .  .  .  Well,  .  .  .  'tis  done 
.  .  .  well  done!  .  .  .  You  have  won  your 
wager ! " 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  would  have  left 
her  where  she  lay,  but  she  rose  to  her  knees 
and  gripped  his  robe,  in  the  fierceness  of  her 
misery. 

"  Leon  .  .  .  forgive  me !  Listen !  How  can 
you  turn  away?  Don't  think  of  what  I've  been, 
but  of  what  I  am ! " 

"  The  queen  of  sin,"  he  muttered,  heavily. 
"  For  money ! " 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  loose  her  hold  upon 
his  skirt,  but  she  clung  in  desperation. 

"  Father ! "  she  cried.  "  Will  you  deny  me 
that  which  you  give  the  meanest  beggar  in  the 
street?  .  .  .  Pity!  .  .  .  Pity!  .  .  .  You  are  a 
priest  of  God  .  .  .  and  I  a  woman  in  despair! 
.  .  .  Pity!  .  .  .  Pity!" 

"  The  queen  of  sin,"  he  muttered  still ;  "  Cor- 
beau  .  .  .  the  wanton ! " 

"Father,"  she  sobbed,  "you  said  forgiveness 
238 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

was  the  choicest  gem  in  the  crown  of  God,  .  .  . 
and  your  heart  is  hard  .  .  .  and  cold  .  .  .  and 
cruel." 

He  rested  his  gaze  on  the  trembling  wretch, 
whose  words  seemed  strange  and  void  of  mean- 
ing ;  his  eyes  were  wide  and  lustreless,  fixed  in 
stunned  bewilderment,  while  his  brain  refused 
to  grip  the  tumbling  thoughts  which  racked  him 
with  a  nameless  pain. 

To  the  woman  a  something  in  that  silent  stare 
seemed  terrible  and  fraught  with  compelling 
power — a  something  that  crushed  her  will  and 
dragged  her  secret  from  protesting  lips. 

"Leon,"  she  cried,  "don't  look  at  me  sol 
You  frighten  me!  ...  take  your  eyes  away! 
...  I  cannot  tell  you  any  more !  .  .  .  There's 
nothing  more  to  tell !  .  .  .  I've  told  you  all !  .  .  . 
Don't  look  at  me  like  that!  .  .  .  Leon!  .  .  . 
you  will  force  it  from  me  .  .  .  and  I  wished  to 
spare  you!  .  .  .  Take  away  your  eyes!  ...  I 
can't  tell  you,  Leon!  I  can't!  I  can't!  I 
can't ! "  She  loosened  her  hold  upon  his  robe 
and  looked  at  the  screen  in  ghastly  terror, 
shrinking  away  and  whispering:  "He's  cold 
...  and  white  ...  and  still.  .  .  .  He's  staring 

239 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

at  us,  Leon  .  .  .  listening  .  .  .  listening  .  .  . 
listening  ..." 

She  crouched,  in  chattering  fear,  one  shaking 
finger  pointed  at  the  hidden  thing,  till  the 
priest,  aroused  from  his  lethargy,  followed  her 
gaze,  then  strode  toward  the  screen. 

"No,  Leon!  No!  Not  that!"  she  cried. 
"Not that!  Comeback!  Comeback!  Mother! 
.  .  .  Have  mercy — mercy — 

With  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  struck  the  barrier 
down — saw — and  sprang  back,  aghast  and  trem- 
bling. 


240 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AN  ivy  vine  clung  to  the  aging  walls  of  The 
House  of  Peace.  It  clambered  upward  on  the 
rough-hewn  masonry,  seeking  new  footholds  in 
the  ever-widening  crevices  from  which  the  rot- 
ting mortar  fell;  and  when  it  had  scaled  the 
parapet  and  spread  along  the  grey  stone  coping, 
worn  smooth  by  countless  rains,  it  sent  its  green 
young  tendrils  creeping  in  a  downward  course, 
as  if  seeking  to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of  the 
dim-lit  cloister.  A  sturdy  vine,  as  sturdy  as  the 
long-forgotten  priest  who  planted  it;  and,  as 
though  to  keep  his  memory  green,  it  carried  out 
a  work  of  mercy  which  had  set  God's  seal  upon 
an  humble  toiler  in  the  vineyard ;  for  here  the 
thick,  dark  foliage  gave  shelter  to  the  sparrows, 
even  as  The  House  of  Peace  was  a  shelter  for 
men  and  the  children  of  men  who  knocked  and 
were  not  denied.  The  clinging  vine  remem- 
bers ;  'tis  the  sparrow  that  forgets. 

All  day  long  these  tiny  pensioners  on  a  curb's 

bounty  chirped  and  twittered  in  the  sunshine, 
16  241 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


fluttered  noisily  among  the  rustling  leaves,  or 
gossiped  on  the  follies  of  their  neighbours  that 
dwelt  in  other  vines.  Here  were  played  out  the 
little  romances  of  their  lives,  their  loves  and 
sorrows;  here  their  never-ending  broods  were 
hatched  and  foisted  on  the  charity  of  the  calm- 
faced  priests  who  pattered  silently  among  the 
shifting  shadows — who  hugged  their  sorrows  and 
strove  to  forget  their  loves. 

Sometimes  a  drooping  sparrow  fell  from  his 
swaying  perch  and  lay  gasping  on  the  ground ; 
it  huddled  for  warmth  against  the  cloister  wall, 
and  died  alone.  Its  fellows  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment in  their  twittering,  then  twittered  louder 
still.  The  bird  is  dead!  Why  trouble  over  it? 
The  cure  is  also  dead ;  his  bones  long  crumbled 
into  dust.  Sunshine  was  made  for  singing,  not 
for  tears,  .  .  .  and  a  bird  or  a  priest  the  less— 
what  matters  it  ?  Twitter  .  .  .  and  forget ! 

In  his  narrow  cell  the  Good  Samaritan  lay 
tossing,  half  delirious,  on  his  rumpled  couch. 
Beside  him  stood  his  food,  untasted,  and  an 
empty  water  jug.  Two  bright-eyed  sparrows 
hopped  on  the  window  ledge,  peeped  in,  and 

marvelled  at  the  moaning  priest  who  fed  them 

242 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

not;  and  Claudien's  brothers  shook  their  heads 
and  whispered  as  they  pattered  past  his  door. 

In  a  dingy  room  above  the  shop  of  Madame 
Denise  a  woman  hid  from  those  who  sought  her 
throughout  the  city ;  she  trembled  at  each  un- 
wonted sound,  and  cowered  in  shivering  dread 
as  the  seekers  clattered  by  in  the  street  below. 
At  her  side  sat  Raymond,  the  one  among  all 
her  friends  on  whom  she  could  lean  in  the  hour 
of  need ;  and,  womanlike,  she  leaned. 

In  Le  Corbeau's  home  three  lean  gendarmes 
awaited  the  Poppy  Flower's  chance  return ;  and, 
to  ease  the  dull  monotony,  threw  dice,  laughing 
aloud  when  luck  ran  high,  or  cursing  at  an  evil 
cast.  Before  the  house  stood  a  crowd  of  idlers, 
beggars — fools — who  stared  at  the  tight-closed 
blinds,  in  expectant  awe.  The  law  was  seeking. 
The  murderess?  Pooh!  They  would  find  her 
in  a  day  or  two.  Meanwhile,  her  loose-tongued 
friends  poured  out  her  story,  like  uncorked  bot- 
tles turned  upside  down. 

The  house  of  Jardin  was  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing, for  the  master  lay  dead  in  an  upper  room. 
A  starving  terrier  whined — whined  pitifully — 
and  scratched  with  a  bandaged  paw  at  the  door 

243 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


which  shut  him  in  the  street.  What  knew  these 
foolish  men  who  had  driven  him  away,  what 
knew  they  of  the  master's  love  and  tenderness  ? 
What  knew  they  of  his  splendid  heart,  crushed 
down  by  hopeless  passion  to  the  dust  of  bitter- 
ness? There  were  none,  in  life,  to  bathe  the 
master's  wounds;  none  to  whisper  words  of 
comfort  in  his  pain.  Yes  .  .  .  there  was  one — 
a  homeless  little  dog — that  had  understood — 
had  loved — and  licked  his  hand. 


244 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  sparrows  twittered,  and  the  mid-day  sun- 
light fell  upon  The  House  of  Peace.  The  clois- 
ter garden  lay  moist  and  cool  in  the  drowsy 
silence,  its  high  walls  casting  shadows  on  the 
grass,  shielding  the  shrubs  and  flowers,  and 
shutting  from  the  dusty  road  outside  all  but  the 
fragrance  of  the  guarded  spot.  The  building 
itself,  of  solid  masonry,  was  erected  for  stern 
stability  rather  than  beauty  of  design.  On  the 
side  which  faced  the  garden  stretched  a  long, 
arched  portico,  making  a  shaded  promenade, 
along  which  the  brothers  were  wont  to  pace  in 
meditation.  At  the  northern  end  a  stairway 
led  to  a  pillared  gallery  above,  and  overlooked 
the  garden  and  the  country  beyond  the  Seine ; 
behind  the  pillars  peeped  eyelike  the  windows 
of  cells,  whence  a  listener's  keen  ear  might  catch 
the  murmured  fragment  of  a  prayer  and  the 
low,  faint  click  of  beads  on  a  fingered  rosary. 
A  gravelled  pathway  led  to  the  gate  which 

pierced  the  wall,  and  above  the  gate  stood  a 

245 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


massive  lamp,  fashioned  by  some  brother  of  the 
past,  in  the  form  of  an  iron  cross.  To  the  left, 
half  buried  in  creeping  vines,  stood  a  little  lat- 
ticed house  wherein  were  kept  the  garden  tools 
and  the  seeds  of  flowers.  On  the  right  a  thick- 
leafed  shade-tree  grew,  and  beneath  its  protect- 
ing boughs  sat  Abbe  Sebastian,  engaged  in  writ- 
ing at  a  rough,  square  table. 

The  abbe  was  a  man  who  ruled  his  house  with 
a  rod  of  love,  and  gained  in  return — from  the 
oldest  brother  to  the  humblest  acolyte — unques- 
tioning obedience  and  the  trust  which  a  child 
gives.  A  fringe  of  snow-white  hair  crept  out 
beneath  his  black  biretta,  and  his  kind  old  face 
was  lined  with  poignant  grief  as  he  bent  to  the 
labour  of  his  halting  quill. 

Philippe,  a  lean  and  sallow  priest,  descended 
the  stairway,  bearing  in  his  arms  a  covered  tray. 

"  Philippe ! "  the  abbe  called,  and  the  priest 
came  forward,  setting  the  tray  on  a  vacant  chair 
beside  the  table. 

"Yes,  father?" 

"Has  he  eaten?" 

Philippe,  in  answer,  lifted  the  cloth  and  shook 

his  head :  "  No  morsel  has  passed  his  lips.    I 

246 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

placed  the  tray  before  him  with  a  crock  of  wa- 
ter; the  water  he  drinks  in  eagerness,  but  the 
food  remains  untouched." 

"Poor  Claudien!"  the  abbe  sighed.  "And 
you  watched  last  night,  Philippe?" 

'  The  whole  night  long  I  sat  outside  his  door, 
my  vigil  ending  with  the  call  to  matins." 
"Did  he  sleep?" 

"Little.  At  daybreak  there  was  silence  in 
his  cell,  but  till  then  I  heard  his  footsteps  al- 
most ceaselessly." 

"And  prayers,  Philippe— you  heard  him  at 
his  prayers?"  the  abbe  questioned,  anxiously, 
but  Philippe  was  silent.  "  Speak ! " 

The  answer  came  in  hesitation.  "  I  heard 
him  once — once  only — a  passionate  petition  to 
Heaven  for  help  and  guidance.  ...  A  prayer 
which  wrung  my  soul  with  its  fierce  despair  .  .  . 
more  bitter  than  a  sinner's  dying  cry  .  .  .  and 
then  at  length  he  moaned:  '  O  God,  I  mock 
Thee !  .  .  .  Adrienne !  .  .  .  My  Adrienne ! '  .  .  . 
and  I  placed  my  palms  upon  my  ears." 

Sebastian  bowed  his  head,  in  sorrowing  si- 
lence, and  after  a  pause  he  asked : 

"And  then,  Philippe?" 
247 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  And  then  he  flung  himself  upon  his  couch 
and  sobbed — great  sobs  that  shook  him  till  his 
heart  was  like  to  burst.  Ah,  father,  'tis  a  fear- 
some thing  to  listen  to  a  strong  man  weeping." 

"  No  more,  Philippe ! "  the  abbe  cried.  "  My 
heart  is  sick  within  me." 

A  moment  Philippe  stood  silently,  then  lifting 
the  tray,  he  passed  into  the  cloister,  while  Sebas- 
tian, with  a  heavy  sigh,  returned  to  the  work 
before  him.  As  Philippe  once  more  came  out 
upon  the  portico  a  carriage  stopped  in  the  road 
outside  and  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  garden 
gate.  He  took  a  key  from  its  hook  upon  the 
wall  and  unlocked  the  oaken  door.  A  woman 
stood  in  the  opening  and  begged  a  word  with 
the  abbe  of  The  House  of  Peace ;  and  when  she 
gave  her  name,  Philippe  returned  to  his  superior 
and  whispered,  eagerly: 

"  Tis  Claudien's  sister — the  Duchesse  de  la 
Fere." 

Sebastian  laid  down  his  pen,  and  arose. 
"  You  may  bid  her  enter." 

Cecile  came  forward  impulsively.  "  Father ! " 
The  abbe  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"You  are  Claudien's  sister?" 
248 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Yes;  I  am  Cecile.  .  .  .  Oh,  father,  I  have 
come  to  you,  for  I  knew  not  where  else  to  turn. 
My  brother!  ...  He  is  here? " 

"Yes,  my  child." 

"  Take  me  to  him,"  the  duchesse  begged,  but 
Sebastian  restrained  her  gently. 

"  Not  now,  Cecile,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
cloister.  "  He  is  there  in  his  room,  and  a 
woman  may  not  enter — even  the  sister  of  a 
priest.  Besides,  it  is  best,  for  the  present,  that 
he  sees  no  one." 

He  led  her  to  a  seat. 

"But,  father,"  she  asked,  "it  is  not  true,  the 
dreadful  things  they  say  of  him!  They  are 
false  and  cruel!"  The  abbe  looked  at  the 
ground  in  silence.  "Answer  me,  father— say 
they  are  not  true ! " 

"  I  know  not,  Cecile,"  he  returned, in  sadness; 
"I  know  not.  I  strive  to  believe  him  blame- 
less, but  he  will  not  speak.  Even  to  me  he  is 
silent— even  to  me." 

"But  he  could  not  have  loved  this— this 
woman ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Could  Leon  break 
his  vows  for  her — could  Leon— 

"  Ah,  my  child,"  the  abbe  answered,  "  there  is 
249 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

many  a  sparrow  fallen  from  its  nest  when  the 
wind  has  blown  too  roughly,  and  many  a  lamb 
has  strayed  from  the  fold  when  the  shepherd 
slept." 

"  And  you  condemn  him,  too  ? "  she  asked,  re- 
proachfully. "  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  sorely  he 
was  tried!  If  you  knew  how  she  entered  my 
home — deceived  and  tempted  him;  how  she 
sought  with  her  every  art  to  lure  him  from  the 
path  of  duty — appealing  to  his  tenderness  of 
nature— his  generous  love  for  the  helpless  and 
distressed." 

"  I  know,  poor  child,  I  know,"  Sebastian  mur- 
mured. 

"  And  then  to  find  that  she  whom  we  had 
sheltered  and  caressed — she  whom  we  had 
thought  so  pure — was  one  of  whom  good  women 
speak  in  whispers — the  courtesan — Corbeau ! " 
The  abbe  nodded  pityingly.  "  And  when  Leon 
learned  what  the  creature  was,  he  must  have 
turned  from  her  in  just  contempt — aye,  in  con- 
tempt and  loathing.  .  .  .  But  tell  me,  father, 
what  you  know  of  him.  .  .  .  Spare  nothing,  for 
I'll  bear  it  bravely,  in  my  love  for  Leon." 

"Alas!"  Sebastian  sighed,  "there  is  little  I 
250 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

may  say  with  certainty.  Two  nights  ago,  at 
midnight,  I  was  summoned  to  the  garden  gate 
on  an  urgent  call.  In  haste  I  clothed  myself 
and  came.  .  .  .  'Twas  Claudien,  and  he  would 
not  enter.  His  face  was  white  and  drawn  with 
suffering;  his  hands  were  cold  and  trembling. 
He  had  come  to  say  farewell  to  me.  .  .  .  He 
had  striven,  he  said,  and  failed — had  broken  his 
vows  and  dishonoured  the  robe  which  covered 
him.  His  soul  had  sinned — God's  curse  was  on 
him — and  his  heart  was  shamed  and  breaking." 

"Ah,  poor  boy!"  the  duchesse  murmured, 
tearfully.  The  abbe  paused,  and  then  went  on 
again : 

"  I  thought  him  ill,  and  strove  to  lead  him 
through  the  gate;  but  he  beat  his  palms  to- 
gether, crying  out,  in  agony,  that  The  House  of 
Peace  could  shelter  him  no  more." 

"Oh,  'tis  pitiful— pitiful !"  sobbed  Cecile. 

"  I  sought  to  soothe  him,  entreating  him  to 
tell  me  what  had  happened— but  no!  ...  He 
begged  me  to  question  him  no  further,  for  his 
day  was  done— the  light  gone  out  forever,  and 
he  only  longed  to  die  and  be  forgotten.  ...  At 
length  he  stooped,  pressed  the  hem  of  my  robe 

251 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


to  his  lips,  and  turned  away  in  the  darkness.  .  „  . 
He  stumbled — and  fell,  unconscious,  to  the 
ground." 

A  cry  of  pain  escaped  Cecile,  and  she  bowed 
her  head  and  wept,  while  down  the  abbe's 
cheeks  rolled  the  tears  of  as  deep  a  love  and 
grief  as  hers. 

"  We  lifted  him,"  he  said,  "  and  bore  him  ten- 
derly to  his  cell,  where  since  he  has  remained,  in 
silence  and  woe  unutterable." 

"  Father,"  Cecile  returned,  "  he  has  suffered 
more  than  we  will  ever  know.  But  tell  me — 
since  Leon  will  speak  no  word  against  the 
woman — how  did  you  learn  of  the  pit  she  dug 
for  him?" 

Sebastian  shook  his  head.  "  There  is  much 
that  is  still  in  mystery.  When  it  was  learned 
through  a  frightened  maid  that  a  man  lay  dead 
in  the  house  of  the  woman  called  Le  Corbeau,  a 
rigid  search  was  instigated.  The  woman  has 
disappeared,  but  those  who  had  been  her  friends 
were  questioned,  and  the  truth  was  brought  to 
light.  I  would  have  kept  it  secret  for  your 
brother's  sake,  but  rumour  linked  her  name  with 

his ;  the  damning  story  flew  from  lip  to  lip,  until 

252 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

those  who  loved  him  yesterday  speak  only  evil 
of  the  Good  Samaritan." 

"  But  it  is  not  true ! "  the  duchesse  cried.  "  It 
can't  be  true ! " 

The  abbe  spoke  in  bitterness :  "  Those  whose 
dying  children  he  had  nursed,  those  whose 
homes  were  lighted  by  the  watcher's  toil,  whose 
griefs  were  borne,  whose  very  bread  was  given, 
they — they  forget  his  gentle  ministrations  and 
smirch  his  name  with  crime ! " 

"And  they  dare  say  that?"  the  duchesse 
cried,  as  she  rose  to  her  feet  excitedly.  "  They 
dare  to  say  that  Leon  killed  .  .  .  Jardin  ?  .  .  . 
Tell  me,  father!  Don't  try  to  hide  it  from  me  I 
Can  they  breathe  such  things  of  him  ? " 

Sebastian  nodded  sadly.  "They  say  even 
that,  .  .  .  Cecile." 

"Oh,  'tis  wicked — monstrous!"  she  angrily 
declared,  then  turned  in  sudden  fear:  "Father! 
.  .  .  then  Leon  will  be  taken !  They  will  throw 
him  into  prison!  Leon!  No,  no  ...  they 
would  not  take  a  priest  ? " 

"  Cecile,"  the  abbe*  answered  gently,  "  I  will 
not  deceive  you,  for  'twould  be  a  cruel  kindness. 
Even  now  the  officers  of  the  king  are  hunting 

253 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Le  Corbeau,  and  soon,  I  fear,  they  will  also  seek 
for  Claudien — in  The  House  of  Peace." 

"  But,  father,  he  is  innocent !  Surely  you  will 
save  him  ? " 

"  What  lies  within  my  power  I  will  do,"  said 
Sebastian,  solemnly.  "  I  have  loved  him  with 
all  the  tenderness  of  an  old  man's  heart,  .  .  . 
watched  over  him,  .  .  .  prayed  with  him,  .  .  . 
have  striven  to  guide  him,  as  though  he  had 
been  my  only  son." 

"And — and  he  loved  you,  father,"  the  du- 
chesse  faltered. 

"And  forgot  it  for  a  woman,"  muttered  the 
abbe,  half  aloud. 

"  Will  you,  too,  turn  against  him — you  /  " 

He  faced  her,  this  grey  old  man  of  seventy 
years, and  answered,  with  a  tremour  in  his  tone: 

"  No !  .  .  .  No,  Cecile.  A  something  tells  me 
that,  though  he  may  have  erred,  still  he  is  free 
from  guilt.  In  silence  he  bears  another's  sin 
upon  his  shoulders,  and  shields  the  woman  who 
has  wrought  his  ruin.  .  .  .  Pride!  That  stub- 
born blood  of  fearless  manhood  in  his  veins, 
which  takes  no  road  to  freedom  while  a  fellow- 
creature  suffers  in  his  stead." 

254 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  duchesse  bent  impulsively  and  kissed 
Sebastian's  hand. 

"  Ah,  father  .  .  .  you  love  him  still ! " 

"Love  him?"  the  abbe  echoed,  tenderly,  as 
he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  cloudless  sky.  "  Oh, 
that  I  might  give  my  poor  old  life  for  his— for 
his!" 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke,  then  the  du- 
chesse questioned,  timidly :  "  Has — has  nothing 
been  done  to — to  save  him  ?  " 

"  All  that  can  be  done,"  the  father  answered. 
"  His  brothers  defend  him  loyally,  hoping 
against  hope ;  but  Claudien  will  speak  no  word 
to  guide  us,  and  we  can  only  trust  and  wait." 
He  lifted  a  written  paper  from  his  table.  "  I 
have  here  prepared  a  letter  to  the  cardinal, 
setting  forth  our  brother's  deeds  of  noble  sacri- 
fice— his  labours  for  the  poor,  his  earnest  zeal,  till 
now,  in  the  cause  of  Christ;  and  I  beg  his  emi- 
nence to  intercede  for  clemency  with  the  king,  at 
least,  till  the  truth  is  known." 

He  held  the  missive  in  his  hand  and  pondered 
deeply. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,  father,"  begged  Cecile. 
"  I  myself  will  take  it.  I  will  plead  on  my 

255 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

knees  for  Leon  to  the  cardinal  and  the  king, 
.  .  .  and  the  king  will  listen,  for  he  loves  the 
due,  my  husband."  The  abbe  weighed  Cecile's 
request,  in  hesitation,  but  she  urged  him  at  his 
weakest  point.  "  Give  me  the  packet,  father, 
for  Leon's  sake." 

"  Take  it,  my  child,  and  God  will  aid  you  in 
your  task."  He  placed  the  letter  in  her  hands 
and  rose.  "But  hasten,  for  there's  little  time 
to  lose." 

"A  sister's  love,"  she  cried,  "will  lend  me 
wings,  and  Leon  may  yet  be  saved." 

She  crossed  to  the  gate,  and  Sebastian  fol- 
lowed her. 

"  And  when  I  return,"  she  asked,  "  then,  fa- 
ther, I  may  see  him  ? " 

"  Yes,  Cecile,  you  shall  speak  with  Leon  then. 
Yes" 

•     .     •      ±  Co. 

She  knelt  for  his  blessing,  then  passed  through 
the  gate  in  silence,  and  the  grey  old  man  stood 
watching  till  her  carriage  disappeared  in  a  cloud 
of  whirling  dust. 


256 


CHAPTER   XIX 

As  Abbe  Sebastian  was  about  to  close  the 
gate,  a  black-robed  priest,  who  had  walked  along 
the  road,  accosted  him: 

"  Greeting,  holy  father;  I  bear  a  missive  from 
his  eminence  the  cardinal." 

"Greeting,  my  son,"  returned  Sebastian,  as 
he  took  the  letter  in  his  hand.  "  But  will  you 
not  enter  and  rest  beneath  the  shade  while  I 
break  the  seal  ? " 

"  It  needs  no  answer,"  said  the  priest.  "  Peace 
be  with  you,  holy  father."  He  bowed,  stepped 
out  on  the  sunlit  road,  and  passed  from  view. 

Philippe  came  forward  and  closed  the  gate, 
while  Sebastian  crossed  to  his  table  beneath  the 
tree  and  scanned  the  cardinal's  letter,  perusing 
its  contents  with  a  deepening  frown.  He  sighed 
when  he  had  finished,  folded,  and  laid  it  down, 
and  sat  in  profound  perplexity. 

"Ill  tidings,  father?"  asked  Philippe. 

"  111  tidings  .  .  .  yes."  The  abbe  tapped  the 
letter  in  impatience.  "  A  missive  from  the  car- 
17  257 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

dinal,  in  which  I  am  informed  that  he  will  send 
a  deputy  to  question  Claudien — his  friend  and 
councillor — Castine." 

"Castine  ...  the  Jesuit?" 

Sebastian  nodded.  "  The  same.  A  worthy 
man  and  a  zealous  churchman :  high  in  favour 
with  the  king,  but  harsh,  incisive,  soured  by 
long  ill-health ;  and  if  Claudien  answers  not  his 
questionings,  the  Jesuit's  anger  may  be  deeply 
stirred." 

"  And  Claudien's  cause  will  fare  but  sadly," 
said  Philippe. 

"  I  fear  it,  Philippe,  I  fear  it,"  Sebastian  an- 
swered, with  a  shaking  head.  "  But  Claudien 
must  be  prepared.  I  will  make  one  last  appeal 
in  the  name  of  the  love  I  bear  him." 

Sebastian  rose  and  walked  slowly  toward  the 
steps  which  led  to  the  gallery  and  the  upper 
cells,  when  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  garden 
gate;  he  paused  as  Philippe  unlocked  it,  and 
saw  in  the  opening  the  figure  of  a  woman.  In 
a  moment  more  Philippe  had  crossed  to  him. 

"  Tis  one,"  he  said,  "  who  begs  a  word  with 
you  in  private." 

"Who  is  she?" 

258 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"I  know  not;  she  is  closely  veiled,  and  will 
give  no  name." 

'  Tell  her  to  come  to-morrow,"  the  abbe  an- 
swered; "to-day  I  am  pressed  with  weighty 
matters  which  may  not  be  delayed.  To-mor- 
row, Philippe — to-morrow." 

The  lean  priest  turned  to  bear  the  message  to 
the  woman  at  the  gate,  while  Sebastian  began 
a  slow  ascent  of  the  steep  stone  stairs,  but 
Philippe  once  more  had  followed  and  detained 
him. 

"  Father,  she  says  her  case  is  gravely  urgent, 
can  be  told  to  you  alone,  and  she  seems  in  deep 
distress." 

"  Distress ! "  the  abbe  echoed.  "  How  full  of 
it  is  this  poor  old  world !  A  sun  that  rises  in 
sorrow  and  sets  in  tears.  .  .  .  She  may  enter, 
Philippe." 

Descending  the  stair,  he  crossed  to  his  table 
beneath  the  shade  and  waited  as  the  woman  ad- 
vanced toward  him. 

"  I  thank  you,  father,"  she  said,  in  a  faltering 
voice,  "  but— but  may  I  speak  with  you  alone  ? " 

Sebastian  waved  his  hand,  and  Philippe  re- 
tired to  an  oaken  bench  beside  the  gate.  The 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

abbe  then  drew  a  chair  for  her  and  seated  him- 
self beside  his  table. 

"  We  are  now  alone,  madame,"  he  said,  in 
kindly  tones ;  "  but  ,1  must  ask  you  to  be  brief, 
for  there  are  many  matters  which  tax  my  time, 
and  it  grows  already  late." 

The  woman  answered  nervously :  "  I  wanted 
to  see  you — to  tell  you — and  yet — and  yet  I 
feared- 

"  And  what  had  you  to  fear  .  .  .  from  me  ? " 

"  Your  anger,  father." 

Sebastian  shook  his  head.  "  No,  no,"  he 
hastened  to  assure  her ;  "  you  mislead  yourself. 
It  is  my  office  to  comfort  those  in  sorrow,  and 
bring  them  back  once  more  to  happiness  and 
peace.  What  troubles  you,  my  child  ? " 

"  Ah,  father,"  she  returned,  as  she  clasped  her 
hands  to  check  their  trembling,  "  you  have  such 
a  dear,  kind  face — so  gentle — tender — and  still 
I  fear — I  fear  your  curse." 

"  I  curse  no  one,  poor  heart." 

"  'Tis  true,  perhaps,  for  others,"  she  answered 
sadly,  "but  not  for  me — not  for  .  .  .  Le  Cor- 
beau." 

"LeCorbeau!" 

260 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  abb6  started,  and  Philippe,  who  had 
caught  the  name,  bent  forward,  listening  eagerly. 

The  woman  drew  aside  her  veil.  "  Yes,"  she 
said,  "/am  .  .  .  Le  Corbeau." 

Sebastian  rose  and  paced  the  gravel  path  ex- 
citedly. In  spite  of  himself,  his  anger  stirred  till 
his  vesture  rose  and  fell  upon  his  breast  to  the 
pulse  of  his  deep  emotion,  and  when  he  spoke 
he  muttered  half  aloud,  unconscious  of  the  pain 
he  gave  to  her  who  listened : 

"Corbeau!  .  .  .  The  harlot!  .  .  .  She  who 
has  stolen  the  soul  of  my  son  and  dragged  it  in 
the  slough  of  her  pitiless  desire " 

"Father!" 

" — she  for  whom  he  forgets  his  God!  .  .  . 
She  for  whom  he  has  wandered  away  from  the 
poor  old  heart  that  loved  him— mine— mine— 
that  loved  him.  Woman,"  he  demanded,  "  have 
you,  then,  no  shame  ? " 

"  Father,"  she  cried,  appealingly,  "  I'm  in  dis- 
tress ! " 

He  turned  upon  her  harshly.  '  There's  no 
distress  .  .  .  without  a  heart  to  bear  it,  .  .  .  and 
you  have  none ! "  He  struggled  to  subdue  his 

anger.    "  Why  have  you  come  to  me? " 

261 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  To  plead  forgiveness." 

"  Heaven  alone  can  grant  forgiveness.  I  am 
but  a  servant  of  the  Master." 

"And  I  ...  a  woman  who  has  sinned  .  .  . 
and  repented." 

Sebastian  paused,  the  look  of  anger  slowly 
fading  from  his  face. 

"Speak  ..."  he  answered,  gently,  as  he 
sank  into  his  seat  and  rested  his  cheek  upon 
his  hand.  "  Speak,  my  child ;  I  am  listening." 

"  I  have  come  to  you,"  she  said,  "  for  Leon's 
sake  alone.  Has  he  told  you  of  me,  father — of 
— of  how  I  tempted  him  ? " 

"  He  has  uttered  no  word  concerning  you, 
but  suffers  in  silence  for  his  own  disgrace,  and 
bows  beneath  the  burden  of  a  double  sin." 

"  No,  father,  no,"  Le  Corbeau  disavowed. 
"The  sin  is  mine,  not  his.  His  robe  is  spot- 
less, save  for  the  love  he  gave  me — a  love  as 
pure  as  his  proud  and  noble  heart." 

Sebastian  raised  his  eyes  and  murmured, 
chokingly:  "O  God  ...  I  thank  Thee!"  He 
bowed  his  head  in  a  silent  prayer  of  thankful- 
ness, then  turned  to  the  woman  kindly.  "  Go 

on.    I  listen.    Tell  me." 

262 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Father,"  she  replied,  "  I  will  tell  you  the 
pitiful  story  from  first  to  last.  You  know  the 
name  which  Paris  calls  me— Le  Corbeau.  Alas ! 
my  history  goes  with  it;  we  need  not  dwell  on 
that.  In  a  moment  of  unreasoning  folly  I  made 
a  wager  with  Monsieur  Jardin— 

"The  man  who  is  dead?"  Sebastian  asked. 
"Youkilled- 

Le  Corbeau  bowed  her  head  in  mute  assent. 

"  May  God  forgive  you,"  the  abbe  whispered, 
and  a  silence  fell  between  them. 

Then  Le  Corbeau  told  her  story,  from  its 
black  beginning  to  its  blacker  end,  withholding 
nothing  of  the  evil  she  had  done;  but  the  abbe 
read  far  deeper  than  she  told,  and  his  heart  was 
stirred  with  a  great  and  human  pity  for  the  out- 
cast and  her  fall.  She  told  of  Jardin  and  his 
blistering  scorn  which  drove  her  to  crawl  like  a 
serpent  in  the  home  of  Leon's  sister;  of  the 
shame  that  crept  upon  her  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  and  the  longing  to  be  good  and  pure, 
even  as  Claudien,  the  Good  Samaritan.  And 
with  repentance  grew  a  wondrous  love  for  him 
who  had  lifted  her — a  love  which  mocked  un- 

vvorthiness  and  plunged  her  sinning  heart  in 

263 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


misery.  She  told  how  she  would  have  left  that 
home  of  purity,  but  love  crushed  down  her 
wavering  will,  and  she  broke  his  rosary — then 
hunted  on  her  knees  till  the  last  bead  was  found. 
She  told  of  Jardin  again,  of  how  he  would  have 
dragged  her  back  into  the  mire  of  wickedness, 
and  then,  in  the  madness  of  his  passion,  sought 
to  take  her  life;  she  loosened  her  gown  and 
showed  the  purple  bruises  of  his  fingers  on  her 
throat. 

"  Father,"  she  cried,  "  I  knew  not  what  I  did ! 
I  was  crazed  with  terror,  and  I  struck!  I  did 
not  mean  to  kill !  .  .  .  Father,  before  the  Vir- 
gin, I  did  not  mean  to  kill ! " 

She  told  how  she  had  placed  a  screen  before 
the  stricken  man,  for  his  eyes  were  open  and 
seemed  to  follow  everywhere,  and  then  she 
had  hastened  to  fly  from  the  hidden  thing,  and 
from  Leon,  whom  now  she  must  see  no  more. 
Then  came  the  story  of  the  priest's  return,  when 
she  might  have  fled  with  him  and  have  left  no 
trace  behind ;  but  she  begged  him  to  leave  her 
there  and  go  back  again  to  his  brotherhood. 

"  And,  father,"  Le  Corbeau  sobbed, "  he  would 

not  go ;  I  even  told  him  I  had  never  loved  him, 

264 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

though  I  wellnigh  strangled  at  the  lie.  And 
when  he  would  have  turned  away  in  anger,  then, 
in  my  love  and  my  woman's  weakness — in  my 
fear  of  the  still,  white  thing  with  its  open  eyes- 
then — then  I  called  him  back  and  told  him  all. 
Told  how  I  had  striven  to  be  worthy  of  his  love 
.  .  .  and  how  I  failed — named  the  vile  thing  I 
was — the  leper  who  was  crushed  with  her  own 
despair — whose  smallest  crime  was  loving  him 
too  well.  And  on  my  knees  I  begged  for  pity 
— only  pity — and  Leon  turned  from  me,  father, 
.  .  .  and  left  me — with  the  dead." 

Sebastian  hid  his  face  within  his  hands,  and  a 
tear  of  deep  compassion  fell  between  his  trem- 
bling fingers. 

"  Father,  I  have  told  the  truth.  ...  If  lips 
like  mine  did  not  profane,  I'd  swear  it  on  your 
crucifix." 

The  abbe*  arose  and  placed  a  gentle  hand 
upon  her  head.  "Poor  child,"  he  murmured 
tenderly,  "  God  gives  you  pity  where  Claudien 
could  not  give— gives  more  than  pity  to  those 
who  kneel  in  penitence  and  ask." 

"And  now,"  she  answered,  with  a  tearful 
smile,  "  when  all  is  done,  I  beg  you  take  him 

265 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

back  once  more  into  The  House  of  Peace ;  and 
beneath  the  shadow  of  his  priestly  robe  .  .  . 
your  Claudien  may  forget." 

"  And  you  ? "  the  abbe  asked. 

"I?  ...  What  matters  it?  I  will  go  to  the 
cardinal  and  to  the  king  to  plead  his  cause  .  .  . 
to  bear  imprisonment — death  if  need  be— for 
Leon's  sake.  ...  I  will  go  alone." 

Sebastian  straightened ;  his  eyes  grew  bright, 
and  his  low  voice  shook  with  the  pathos  of  his 
tone: 

"  No,  not  alone,  .  .  .  for  /  go  with  you." 

"Father!" 

Le  Corbeau  fell  upon  her  knees  and  hid  her 
face  in  the  folds  of  the  abbe's  robe. 

He  raised  her  gently.  "  Bear  up,  brave  heart, 
the  end  is  not  yet  come.  You  have  striven  to 
mend  an  evil  for  which  you  are  not  alone  to 
blame,  and  Heaven  will  stretch  to.you  a  helping 
hand.  Come  to  me  at  sunset  and  together  we 
will  seek  the  king.  Go  now,  and  peace  be  with 
you." 

Le  Corbeau  lingered  still ;  she  turned  to  the 
abbe  timidly : 

"  Father " 

266 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Yes?" 

'  To-day  I  pass  from  Leon's  life  forever.  .  .  . 
I  shall  never  see  his  face  again.  .  .  .  I— I  may 
speak  with  him  before  I  go  ? " 

Sebastian  sadly  shook  his  head.  "  No.  .  .  . 
Tis  better  as  it  is." 

"Only  a  word,  dear  father— a  touch  of  his 
hand.  So  little  to  ask,  and  to  me  it  means — 
Ah,  father,  I've  tried  so  hard  for  him." 

Sebastian  answered  kindly,  but  his  tone  was 
firm :  "  My  child,  it  grieves  me  sorely  to  refuse, 
yet  it  is  impossible.  .  .  .  Urge  me  no  more,  I 
pray  you." 

But  she  would  not  be  denied.  "  Forgive  me," 
she  begged,  in  humble  prayer.  "Could  I  but 
see  him  ?  I  only  ask  one  look.  I  will  be  silent, 
and  he'll  never  know.  Father,  .  .  .  you  will  let 
me  see  him — a  last  faint  gleam  of  light  to  a 
heart  made  desolate?  And  'tis  breaking,  father, 
for  the  bitter  loneliness  .  .  .  that  will  be  mine." 

The  old  man's  eyes  grew  dim  with  a  mist  of 
tears,  and  his  voice  was  tremulous  as  he  made 
reply : 

"  Listen,  my  child ;  you  deem  me  stern  and 

harsh — unmindful  of  your  suffering  and  sacrifice. 

267 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

You  were  free  to  go,  and  yet  you  came  for  Clau- 
dien's  sake,  .  .  .  and  for  him  you  will  suffer 
further  still.  Your  heart  is  brave,  and  you  shall 
not  be  forgotten.  Come  to  me  when  the  sun  is 
set  and  we'll  pray  the  king  for  mercy,  .  .  .  the 
king  and  the  King  of  kings.  Peace  be  with 
you,  and  farewell." 

Le  Corbeau  knelt  at  the  father's  feet,  and  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  in  blessing ;  she  kissed 
his  robe,  then  crossed  with  a  drooping  step 
toward  the  gate ;  but  when  she  was  almost  be- 
neath the  iron  lamp  she  stopped,  sprang  back 
with  a  cry  of  fear,  and  pointed  down  the  road. 
Sebastian,  hastening  to  her  side,  looked,  and 
was  filled  with  consternation,  for  under  a  tree  a 
hundred  yards  away  a  mounted  gendarme  sat  his 
horse  and  fixed  his  gaze  on  The  House  of  Peace, 
so  that  none  who  entered  or  withdrew  might 
escape  his  lynx-eyed  vigilance. 

The  abbe  gazed  in  deep  perplexity,  for  well 
he  knew  that  should  the  gendarme  take  the 
woman  prisoner  her  chance  of  pardon  by  the 
king  was  small  indeed ;  and  somewhere  in  his 
priestly  veins  a  warlike  drop  of  blood  surged  to 

his  sturdy  heart  and  warmed  it.    He  clenched 

268 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

his  soft  white  fist,  and  registered  a  vow  that  ere 
they  took  this  friendless  child  who  sacrificed 
herself  for  love  of  Claudien,  the  walls  of  The 
House  of  Peace  should  first  be  battered  down ; 
then  he  closed  the  gate  and  turned  to  Le  Cor- 
beau  kindly. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  said,  "  yon  watching  offi- 
cer has  altered  somewhat  of  my  plans,  and  while 
he  waits  I  cannot  jeopardize  your  safety  by  dis- 
missing you.  A  matter  of  weighty  import  de- 
mands my  absence  for  a  time,  and  I  therefore 
beg  that  you  remain  till  my  return."  He  cast 
about  him  for  a  spot  wherein  she  might  escape 
inquiring  eyes,  then  led  her  to  the  latticed  tool- 
house  near  the  wall.  "  Here,"  he  said,  "  you 
may  rest  in  calm  security,  first  giving  me  your 
faithful  pledge  to  speak  with  no  one,  nor  make 
attempt  to  leave  your  hiding  place." 

"  I  promise,  father,"  she  answered  gratefully, 
and  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  snug  retreat, 
where,  through  the  latticed  bars,  she  could 
see  and  hear  all  that  passed  in  the  cloister 
garden. 

Sebastian  closed  the  door,  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  turned  the  key,  and  placed  it  in  a 

269 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

fold  of  his  inner  robe.  When  this  was  done 
he  crossed  to  his  table  hastily  and  began  to 
write.  He  sprinkled  the  sheet  with  sand,  and 
called  Philippe,  as  he  folded  and  sealed  the 
missive : 

"  Philippe,  you  have  heard  ?  " 

"  Aye,"  replied  his  attendant  priest,  "  aye,  fa- 
ther, and  God  be  praised ! " 

Sebastian  handed  him  the  letter  and  spoke  in 
guarded  tones: 

"  Take  this  missive  to  the  palace  of  the  king ; 
seek  out  the  Due  de  la  Fere  and  give  it  in  his 
hands.  No  other,  my  son — to  the  due  alone. 
I,  myself,  will  see  the  cardinal  without  delay. 
Go  now,  and  if  yonder  gendarme  stops  you,  show 
him  the  packet  which  you  bear;  he  will  doubt- 
less let  you  pass.  Hasten,  Philippe;  we  yet 
may  be  in  time !  Hasten !  Hasten ! " 

Philippe  departed  hurriedly ;  Sebastian  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  after  him,  then  fell  on  his 
knees  and  clasped  his  crucifix  in  prayer.  A 
deep-toned  bell  tolled  solemnly ;  a  file  of  priests, 
with  downcast  eyes  and  bended  heads,  passed 
slowly  along  the  portico  and  disappeared  through 

the  door  of  The  House  of  Peace.    Abbe  Sebas- 

270 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

tian  rose  from  his  knees  and  crossed  to  the  gar- 
den gate;  he  lingered  till  the  bell  had  ceased  to 
toll,  then  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  a  dark- 
ened cell  and  murmured,  in  quavering  tender- 
ness: 
"  Claudien  .  .  .  my  son  ...  my  son ! " 


271 


CHAPTER    XX 

A  PRIEST  walked  slowly  across  the  garden, 
trailing  behind  him  a  wooden  rake,  and  began 
to  smooth  the  gravel  paths.  He  moved  with  a 
listless  step  and  drooping  shoulders,  his  figure 
gaunt  and  awkward  beneath  his  flapping  gown ; 
and  his  cheeks  had  a  muddy  tinge  which  seemed 
reflected  in  the  whites  of  his  sad,  protruding 
eyes.  Poor  Lucien — an  humble  toiler,  meek 
and  joyless — whose  liver  doled  a  life-long  pen- 
ance for  uncommitted  sins. 

Brother  Henri  came  out  upon  the  gallery  and 
leaned  across  its  rail.  Henri  was  of  a  widely 
different  type  from  Lucien,  sleek  and  plump, 
with  restless  ferret  eyes,  forever  on  the  watch  for 
earthly  happenings,  and  fingers  which  seemed 
to  itch  eternally  to  break  the  seals  of  metaphoric 
bundles  with  unknown  contents. 

"Philippe!  .  .  .  Philippe!"  he  called.  "Ho, 
Lucien!  Hast  thou  seen  Philippe?" 

Lucien  paused  in  his  work  upon  the  path, 
272 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

looked  upward,  and  placed  his  hand  behind  his 
ear: 

"Hem?" 

"  Hast  thou  seen  Philippe? "  asked  Henri,  in 
a  louder  tone. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  Lucien  briefly,  and,  as 
though  the  matter  were  entirely  closed,  went  on 
with  his  sober  raking. 

Henri  laughed,  and  descending  the  stair,  came 
forward  and  touched  the  raker's  arm. 

"Where?" 

"Where  what?" 

"  Philippe  !  "  bawled  Henri  in  the  other's  ear. 
"  I  want  Philippe !  Where  is  he  ? " 

"  I  know  not." 

"Lucien,  you  drive  one  mad.  Where  was 
he?" 

"  Running." 

Again  the  plump  priest  laughed,  stopped  sud- 
denly, and  bethought  him  that  the  mystery  anent 
Philippe  was  still  unsolved. 

"U-u-m!  You  say  you  saw  him  running, 
Lucien  ?  Er — how  ? " 

"As  though  the  fiend  was  after  him,"  said 
Lucien  gravely.  "  I  saw  him  from  a  corner  of 
18  273 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


the  garden  whisk  through  the  gate  and  rush 
furiously  away,  his  vestment  fluttering  upon 
the  wind." 

"  Then  the  fiend  caught  him  not,"  the  fat  one 
grinned. 

"  Methinks  Philippe  outfooted  him,"  the  lean 
one  answered,  with  a  bilious  smile,  "  for  his  pace 
was  lightning  like." 

"And  Father  Sebastian?"  Henri  asked. 

"  Gone  also — with  greater  dignity  and  less  of 
haste — but  gone." 

Henri  whistled  softly,  and  bit  his  thumb  in 
earnest  meditation. 

"  Now,  what  on  earth,"  he  muttered,  "  could 
take  them  off  so  strangely  and  with  such  pre- 
cipitance ? "  He  looked  up  slyly.  "  Eh,  Lu- 
cien?" 

Lucien  leaned  upon  his  implement  and  an- 
swered solemnly: 

"  Brother,  ...  I  rake  the  garden  paths,  and 
trouble  not  my  spirit  with  mundane  matters 
.  .  .  other  than  those  which  appertain  to  rakes." 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  garden  gate,  but 
Henri  paid  no  heed. 

"  Lucien,"  he  said,  "  you  are  indeed  a  stoic — 
274 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

marvellous!  And  yet,"  he  added,  with  a  med- 
itative sigh,  "and  yet  I  wonder  much  what 
caused  Philippe  to  whisk  so  suddenly  away. 
Would  he  had  paused  to  tell  us."  Another 
knock  resounded  on  the  gate.  "  Secretiveness, 
my  Lucien,  is  an  evil  habit;  it  narrows  the 
mind,  creates  a  selfish  soul,  and  slams  the  door 
of  information  in  the  face  of  progress.  Now 
had  Philippe  but  stopped  a  single  instant  to 
tell " 

But  here  Henri  was  rudely  interrupted  in  his 
speculations  by  a  louder  and  more  impatient 
knocking,  and  Lucien  once  more  leaned  upon 
his  rake  and  ventured  on  a  sapient  observation : 

"  Methinks,  Henri,  your  boundless  curiosity 
would  lead  you  to  ascertain  who  stands  outside 
the  gate." 

"  True,  O  stoic — true,"  the  other  grinned,  as 
he  crossed  the  garden.  "  My  mind  was  occu- 
pied with  that  sly  Philippe  and  his  surreptitious 
whisking.  .  .  .  God  save  us,  what  a  fox ! " 

The  gate  was  opened,  and  Le  Corbeau,  watch- 
ing from  behind  her  latticed  screen,  saw  the 
black-robed  Jesuit  enter,  and  at  his  heels  two 

solemn-faced    attending    priests.     The    Jesuit 

275 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

leaned  upon  his  staff  and  walked  with  a  twisting 
limp;  beneath  his  brow  two  cold  grey  eyes 
looked  out  forbiddingly,  and  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  curved  downward  to  a  thin,  protruding 
chin.  Henri  bowed  low  before  him  as  he  raised 
his  hand  in  silent  salutation  and  halted  in  the 
path. 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  with  an  acid  smile,  "  your 
entrance  gate  is  in  need  of  a  nimbler  foot  than 
yours  ...  or  mine,"  and  he  thrust  a  padded 
sandal  into  view.  "  Go  say  to  your  abbe  that 
Castine  is  come  at  the  order  of  the  cardinal." 

"Your  pardon,  holy  father,"  Henri  stam- 
mered, "but  I — er — but  Father  Sebastian  has 
gone — er — a  short  time  since." 

"Whither?" 

"  Alas !  I  know  not.  He  left  no  word,  and 
went  in  haste.  But  I  pray  you,  father,  rest  be- 
neath the  shade,  for,  doubtless,  his  absence  will 
be  brief." 

"  My  son,  I  thank  you ;  so  be  it,"  said  Castine, 
and  crossed  to  a  seat  at  the  abbe's  writing  table, 
his  two  attendants  likewise  seeking  shelter  from 
the  sun. 

Henri  bore  a  cup  of  water    to  the  guest. 
276 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

When  the  Jesuit  had  drunk  he  handed  back 
the  empty  vessel,  and  wiped  his  thin  blue  lips 
with  a  claw-like  hand.  There  was  something  in 
the  motion  of  that  hand,  a  something  swift  and 
sure,  that  sent  a  chill  to  Le  Corbeau's  heart  and 
set  her  shivering  behind  her  screen. 

A  priest  appeared  on  the  gallery,  shaded  his 
eyes,  and  looked  along  the  road  toward  the 
south,  then  turned  and  called: 

"  The  troopers !    They  have  come ! " 

On  the  instant  Henri  caught  the  fire  of  fear 
and  cried  excitedly: 

"  Quick,  Lucien !  Ring  the  cloister  bell ! 
Summon  the  brothers!  Haste  you!  They 
shall  not  take  him ! " 

"What's  this?  What's  this?"  said  Castine, 
tartly.  "  Cease !  Cease  your  clamour,  man ! " 

But  Henri  only  wrung  his  hands  and  cried 
out  more  loudly:  "The  soldiers  of  the  king! 
They  will  take  him— Claudien !  Quick !  Hide 
him  in  the  cellar!  Will  no  one  help  him? " 

"  Pish ! "  the  Jesuit  sneered,  and  turned  to  the 
priest  on  the  gallery;  "what  means  the  mad- 
man ? " 

"  Tis  true,"  the  priest  called  back.  '  The  sol- 
277 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

diers  of  the  king  are  on  the  road,  and  I  fear 
they  seek  for  Claudien." 

A  deafening  hubbub  rose ;  the  priests  poured 
out  upon  the  gallery  with  excited  cries  and  ges- 
tures; the  clean,  harsh  blare  of  a  trumpet's  note 
rang  echoing  along  the  gray  stone  parapets,  and 
died  in  the  pounding  rush  of  horses'  hoofs;  a 
jingling  clatter  of  dismounting  men — and  an 
officer  struck  the  gate  with  the  hilt  of  his  naked 
sword. 

"In  the  king's  name  .  .  .  open ! " 

Le  Corbeau  crouched  behind  the  lattice  an^ 
pressed  a  white,  affrighted  face  against  its  bars., 
while  Henri  rushed  about  in  distracted  circles, 
till  the  Jesuit  caught  his  arm  and  commanded 
angrily,  as  he  pushed  him  forward : 

"  The  gate,  dolt !    The  gate ! " 

Henri  advanced,  but  at  a  louder  knock 
sprang  back  in  terror.  Lucien  flung  down  his 
rake,  and  whispered  as  he  passed  his  quaking 
friend : 

"  I  fear,  Henri,  that  your  curiosity  is  on  the 
wane." 

The  gate  was  opened,  and  an  officer  stepped 

in,  followed  by  a  double  score  of  men-at-arms ; 

278 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

he  spoke  an  order  sharply,  and  they  formed 
a  line  along  the  path,  while  two  remained  be- 
hind and  barred  the  gate  with  their  sabres 
crossed.  Castine  stepped  forward  and  spoke 
with  dignity: 

"May  I  ask,  monsieur,  the  cause  of  this 
strange  infraction  of  our  rules  ? " 

The  officer  raised  a  hand  to  his  round  steel 
cap.  "Your  pardon,  holy  father,  I  but  obey 
the  order  of  the  king." 

"And  your  order?"  asked  the  Jesuit. 

"  Is  positive  and  explicit.  To  take  into  cus- 
tody one  Leon  la  Valiere,  a  priest  of  The 
House  of  Peace." 

A  murmur  ran  along  the  gallery  and  sank 
into  a  breathless  hush. 

"  And  on  what  charge,"  the  Jesuit  questioned, 
"  do  you  seek  our  brother? " 

"  My  instructions  demand  that  I  hail  the  pris- 
oner before  the  king,  and  there  instructions 
end." 

Castine  pursed  his  lips.  "  The  procedure  is 
most  unusual.  If  I  refuse?" 

The  officer  replied  in  all  due  reverence:  "I 

would    spare    you,    father,    the    indignity   of 

279 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

force,  and  trust,  in  turn,  you  will  respect  my 
orders." 

He  drew  from  his  belt  a  paper,  which  he 
placed  in  Castine's  hand.  The  churchman  read 
it  carefully  twice  through,  folded,  and  gave  it 
back  from  whence  it  came. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,"  he  said,  with  a  wave  of 
his  flowing  sleeve,  "  to  offer  discourtesy  to  the 
mandates  of  the  king;  but  the  abbe  here  in 
charge  is  absent,  and  without  his  sanction  I 
cannot  assent  to  the  seizure  of  a  member  of  his 
household." 

A  hum  of  approval  echoed  along  the  gallery ; 
Castine  looked  up,  and  the  murmur  ceased. 
The  officer  toyed  with  the  handle  of  his  sword, 
and  after  a  moment's  thought,  said  firmly: 

"  The  matter  is  imperative.  ...  It  may  not 
wait ! " 

"It  must!"  And  Castine's  lean  jaws  closed 
with  an  angry  snap. 

The  trooper  bowed.  "  I  should  much  regret," 
he  offered,  with  grave  respect,  "to  resort  to 
measures  stronger  than  persuasion,  but  as  you 
will " 

He   shrugged    his  shoulders,   turned   to  his 
280 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

men-at-arms,  and  raised  his  sword.  Le  Corbeau 
would  have  lifted  her  frightened  voice  in  pro- 
test, but  the  Jesuit  forestalled  her. 

"  Stop ! "  he  commanded  sternly.  "  I,  too,  am 
vested  with  authority  .  .  .  and  will  be  obeyed ! " 
He  caught  the  shrinking  Henri  by  the  arm. 
"  Go  seek  Sebastian  and  ask  his  immediate  re- 
turn." 

"But,  father,"  Henri  whined,  "I  know  not 
where  he  is." 

"  Then  search  until  you  find  him,"  came  the 
harsh  reply.  "Go!" 

Henri  ran  forward,  but  recoiled  in  fear,  as  the 
two  crossed  sabres  barred  his  exit  from  the  gate, 
while  the  trooper  also  laid  his  sword  on  the 
gleaming  barrier,  and  cried : 

"  In  the  name  of  the  King  of  France ! " 

The  Jesuit  bent  his  head  as  the  eagle  stoops, 
and  his  keen  grey  eye  burned  wrathfully;  he 
limped  down  that  line  of  steel  and  struck  the 
sabres  sharply  with  his  oaken  staff. 

"In  the  name  of  his  Eminence  .  .  .  the  Car- 
dinal!" - 

The  sword-points  fell,  and  Henri  sped  down 

the  dusty  road  like  a  hunted  hare. 

281 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  trooper  touched  his  helm.  "  Your  par- 
don, monseigneur ;  I  feared  for  the  moment  that 
yours  was  an  artifice  to  aid  my  prisoner's 
escape."  He  bowed  and  humbly  bent  his  knee. 
"Your  pardon." 

Castine  received  the  officer's  apology  with  a 
glance  of  cool  contempt,  turned  on  his  heel, 
and  addressed  a  priest  who  was  standing  near  at 
hand: 

"  Go  bid  your  former  brother,  Leon  la  Valiere, 
attend  me  here  without  delay."  To  the  officer 
he  said,  with  curt  but  easy  dignity :  "  You  will 
see,  monsieur,  that  the  servants  of  God  deal  not 
in  trickeries.  I,  Castine,  am  deputed  by  the 
cardinal  to  question  this  brother  whom  you  seek 
concerning  certain  matters  which  have  come  to 
pass.  I  beg  you,  therefore,  to  retire ;  the  pris- 
oner shall  remain  within  your  sight  throughout." 

Once  more  the  trooper  bowed  respectfully, 
turned,  and  gave  a  low-voiced  order  to  his  fol- 
lowers, who  wheeled,  retreated,  and  formed  a 
line  along  the  garden  wall.  The  Jesuit  leaned 
upon  his  staff  and  limped  across  to  the  table  be- 
neath the  shade,  and  for  five  long,  aching  min- 
utes no  sound  was  heard  save  the  stamping  of 

282 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


restless  steeds  outside  and  the  rattle  of  their 
bridle  reins. 

And  while  a  woman  watched,  her  heart 
churned  hotly  in  her  breast,  and  her  spinning 
thought  wove  backward  to  the  shop  of  Madame 
Denise  and  the  evil  thing  that  crouched  beside 
a  dingy  window — waiting — waiting— for  the 
coming  of  a  priest. 


283 


CHAPTER    XXI 

LE  CORBEAU  saw  a  line  of  priests  file  silently 
out  upon  the  gallery,  descend  the  stair,  and  pass 
with  solemn  pace  along  the  portico ;  it  moved 
down  the  gravel  path,  spread  out  in  a  close- 
linked  ring,  and  Claudien  stood  before  the 
Jesuit.  His  head  was  held  erect;  his  sad  grey 
eyes  looked  calmly  upon  his  judge,  but  his  face 
was  white — white  as  the  spotless  robe  which 
loosely  hung  from  his  straight,  square  shoul- 
ders. His  mantle  had  been  laid  aside,  and  he 
seemed  among  his  sombre-robed  inquisitors  like 
a  pallid  rift  in  the  core  of  a  frowning  cloud. 

Castine  raised  his  hand  and  surveyed  the 
waiting  circle  long  and  earnestly. 

"  Peace  be  with  you." 

The  brothers  bowed  their  heads;  the  Jesuit 
turned  to  Claudien,  and  his  words  were  slow, 
dispassionate,  and  calm : 

"  Leon  la  Valiere,  once  a  brother  in  The 
House  of  Peace,  I  speak  in  the  name  of  the 

Holy  Church  of  Rome.  .  .  .  We  meet  in  sor- 

284 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


row — sorrow  for  the  cause  of  meeting,  and  for 
the  servant  who  has  fallen  in  disgrace.  Around 
you  are  the  brothers  of  your  Order  bowed  in 
grief — for  you  whom  once  they  loved— for  the 
sacred  vow  which  your  sin  dishonours."  He 
waved  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the  grim-faced 
men-at-arms.  "  There  stand  the  soldiers  of  the 
King  of  France,  clothed  with  authority  to  seize 
your  person  on  a  grievous  charge.  The  nature 
of  this  charge  is  known  ...  to  you  .  .  .  and  to 
us ;  we  spare  you  its  recital.  And  now,  if  there 
be  aught  which  you  may  say  in  palliation  of 
your  sin,  I  conjure  you,  in  the  name  of  the  Holy 
Church,  to  speak."  Castine  waited,  but  no 
answer  came.  "Speak  ...  ere  the  book  be 
closed  I " 

The  white  priest  bowed  his  head  and  an- 
swered calmly: 

"  I  have  sinned." 

"  Who  or  what  is  the  cause  of  your  transgres- 
sion? .  .  .  Speak!" 

Claud ien  pressed  his  hands  together  and 
slowly  raised  his  eyes. 

"  Father  ...  I  entreat  you— question  me  no 

further.  ...  I  can  say  no  more." 

285 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Castine's  mouth  grew  hard.  "  The  question 
is  one  which  neither  you  nor  I  may  shirk.  I 
ask  .  .  .  and  must  receive  response.  My  son, 
we  wait." 

"  I  cannot  answer." 

"Refusal  aids  you  nothing.  I  come  at  the 
instance  of  the  cardinal,  whose  will  must  be 
obeyed.  Speak ! " 

Again  came  silence,  longer  and  more  intense, 
while  Castine  scowled  and  bit  his  nether  lip. 
He  leaned  across  the  table,  waiting,  then 
raised  and  shook  his  hand : 

"  So  be  it.  Then  since  you  will  not  name  the 
reason  of  your  fall,  I  name  it  in  your  stead.  .  .  . 
A  woman  !  "  A  murmur  broke  from  the  ring 
of  listeners.  " Speak!  Is  this  not  true?  " 

"  Once  more,  holy  father,"  came  the  low  re- 
sponse, "  I  cannot  answer." 

The  murmuring  increased.  Upon  the  Jesuit's 
pale,  lank  cheek  a  crimson  spot  appeared;  he 
bent  his  head  and  thrust  out  his  dogged  chin, 
deep-lined  with  the  crease  of  his  curving  lips. 

"  What  need,"  he  harshly  cried,  "  to  hide  the 
truth  beneath  a  veil  of  sullen  silence?  What 

need  .  .  .  when  your  name  is  bandieH  from  lip 

286 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

to  lip— a  subject  for  idle  jest  and  ridicule? 
What  need  .  .  .  when  even  the  rabble  in  the 
streets  of  Paris  now  know  the  shameful  story  of 
the  Good  Samaritan  and  Le  Corbeau— his 
paramour! " 

"Stop!    It  is  false!" 

Claudien's  voice  rose  clear  and  resonant,  and 
even  the  Jesuit  made  no  move  to  break  the 
hush  which  followed.  A  moment  passed,  and 
the  white  priest  spoke  again,  but  in  the  meas- 
ured tones  of  fearless  truth : 

"  That  I  loved  this  woman  it  is  true.  .  .  .  That 
for  her  I  broke  my  vows  and  sacred  promises  is 
true.  .  .  .  That  for  her  I  would  have  deserted 
Church  and  brotherhood  is  also  true.  .  .  .  The 
rest — before  just  Heaven — is  a  lie!" 

A  louder  murmur  rose,  and  the  priests 
moved  restlessly ;  one  brother  stepped  from  the 
watching  group  and  stood  apart,  while  a  listen- 
ing woman  panted  in  imprisonment,  and  thrilled 
with  a  nameless  joy.  Castine  raised  his  hand, 
and  the  murmuring  ceased. 

"You  love  this  woman  still?"  Claudien 
bowed  his  head.  "  Knowing  what  she  is? " 

The  answer  came  in  the  same  unruffled  tone: 
287 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


"  What  she  has  been  .  .  .  crushes  me.  What 
she  is  ...  I  know  not,  .  .  .  but  I  love  her  still." 

Another  brother  left  the  group,  looking 
askance  at  him  whose  lips  profaned  his  cloth, 
while  his  fellow-priests,  as  though  by  mute 
consent,  devoutly  crossed  themselves  and  edged 
away.  The  Jesuit  bent  his  frown  on  the  passive 
face  before  him  and  asked,  in  rising  warmth: 

"  Do  you  realize  the  evil  import  of  your 
words  ?  You  stand  confessed  of  a  sinful  passion 
— glorying  in  your  infamy — insulting  the  very 
Church  of  Rome  with  the  shame  of  your 
avowal." 

"  I  speak  the  simple  truth  .  .  .  without  irrev- 
erence or  a  thought  to  wound." 

"Your  love  for  the  woman  was  criminal," 
Castine  accused. 

"  Of  such  a  sin,"  the  priest  replied,  "  my  heart 
is  clean.  ...  I  gave  her  my  love.  ...  I  gave 
her  honour  and  respect." 

"  Where  is  your  proof  of  innocence? " 

"  Where  is  your  proof  of  guilt? " 

"Where?"  the  Jesuit  thundered.  "Where? 
...  In  the  body  of  the  murdered  man — Jar- 
din!"  And  he  struck  the  table  sharply  with 

288 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

his  oaken  staff,  to  still  the  wild  confusion  among 
his  listeners,  then  turned  again  to  Claudien: 
"  You  are  known  to  have  been  alone  with  her — 
alone  ...  at  night — her  lover  in  thought  and 
deed.  Your  sacred  robe  concealed  the  gar- 
ments of  a  cavalier ;  you  even  wore  a  sword— 
you— a  priest.  Jardin  is  dead.  .  .  .  He  was  the 
woman's  lover  also — Paris  knows  it,  even  as 
you  have  known — your  rival  for  the  painted 
courtesan!  .  .  .  Speak!  .  .  .  Who  did  the 
deed?" 

Again  came  lagging  silence,  through  which 
Le  Corbeau  heard  the  pawing  steeds  and  the 
ceaseless  quarrelling  of  sparrows  in  the  ivy  vine. 

"Silence  is  confession  of  your  guilt,"  said 
Castine,  solemnly,  "  and  denial  is  your  right  if 
innocent." 

"  Father— I  cannot— answer." 

The  Jesuit  controlled  himself  by  force  of  will 
alone.  Justice  he  loved,  and  manhood  he  ad- 
mired, but  zeal  for  the  Mother  Church  came 
first  of  all. 

"And  do  you  fully  understand,"  he  asked, 
"  the  consequences  of  your  stubbornness  ? "  He 
pointed  to  the  troopers  lined  against  the  wall. 
19  289 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Your  seizure  by  the  law?  To  be  led  through 
the  public  streets — a  common  criminal?  The 
prison  and  the  block?" 

Claudien  looked  him  in  the  eye  and  bowed 
his  head  in  answer — an  answer  which  would  be 
the  same  when  the  headsman  raised  his  axe. 

"  Leon  la  Valiere,"  said  Castine  sternly,  "  the 
Church  has  sought  to  shield  your  body  and 
your  name,  but  your  silence  ties  the  hand  that 
would  stay  the  executioner.  The  soldiers  wait. 
.  .  .  Give  me  your  oath  of  innocence — a  single 
word — and  I  bid  them  to  be  gone.  .  .  .  Refuse 
.  .  .  and  the  path  you  choose  is  yours  to  walk 
alone." 

Claudien  raised  his  chin,  like  a  warrior  hope- 
less, but  unafraid : 

"  Father,  ...  I  have  chosen,  .  .  .  and  I  walk 
.  .  .  alone." 

There  were  many  there  who  loved  him  still, 
even  though  his  hands  were  stained  with  blood, 
and  some  among  them  fell  upon  their  knees, 
while  one  sobbed  out  aloud,  turned,  and  fled  to 
the  darkness  of  his  cell.  And  even  Castine's 
chastened  spirit  stirred,  for  he  knew  that  before 

him  stood  a  man. 

290 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"My  son,"  he  said,  in  a  softened  tone,  "I 
make  one  last  appeal.  ...  If  you  are  innocent, 
and  in  your  silence  seek  to  shield  a  woman's 
sin,  I  tell  you  your  folly  is  greater  than  your 
fault.  As  the  justice  of  man  will  fall  on  you,  so 
will  the  justice  of  God  be  meted  out  to  her.  .  . 
Your  cloth  demands  the  truth.  Answer! " 

Claudien  sadly  shook  his  head;  the  Jesuit's 
nostrils  whitened,  and  his  jaw  grew  set  and  hard. 

"Then  go!"  he  cried.  "And  may  Heaven 
judge  you  as  your  sin  deserves."  He  lifted  his 
hand  and  addressed  the  sorrowing  priests: 
"  Brothers,  .  .  .  you  have  heard.  His  path  is 
chosen,  and  it  parts  from  yours.  When  this 
dark  day  is  done,  I  charge  you  to  forget — even 
as  he  shall  be  forgotten,  .  .  .  dishonoured  in  life 
.  .  .  dishonoured  in  death,  ...  his  name 
henceforth  unspoken  in  your  brotherhood." 

The  priests  were  weeping  silently,  and  Le 
Corbeau's  tears  were  dropped  with  theirs,  a 
priceless  offering  on  an  altar  of  human  love. 

Again  the  Jesuit  spoke:  "And  you  who  have 
loved  him— lest  you  cry  my  judgment  harsh — I 
plead  your  aid  in  his  condemnation.  If  there 

be  one  among  you  can  speak  in  the  cause  of 

291 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

him  who  stands  before  us,  let  not  your  tongue 
be  silent."  Alas !  no  answer  came.  "  If  there 
be  one  who  can  look  into  his  heart  and  say  .  .  . 
he  is  innocent  of  crime,  ...  in  the  name  of  the 
Holy  Church — speak  now!" 

Once  more  that  crawling  pause.  Castine 
bent  his  eagle  neck  and  waited. 

"Answer!" 

But  only  the  sparrows  twittered,  and  a  brother 
sobbed  in  pity  for  his  friend.  The  Jesuit  made 
a  sign  to  the  watchful  officer,  who  gave  a  low 
command ;  two  troopers  stepped  from  the  rigid 
line  and  placed  their  hands  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  unresisting  priest,  when  a  voice  rang  out, 
shrill,  vibrant  with  distress: 

"  Stop !  He  is  stainless  .  .  .  before  God  and 
man!" 

Claudien  started  at  the  sound,  and  turned  in 
wonder. 

"Who  speaks?"  the  Jesuit  cried.  "Stand 
forth!" 

No  answer  came  save  a  rattling  of  the  latticed 
door,  as  Le  Corbeau  shook  it  with  her  bare 
white  hands.  Locked!  Locked!  And  Leon 

stood  in  the  soldiers'  grasp !     He  bore  her  guilt ! 

292 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

His  lips  were  sealed  for  her!  For  her!  He 
would  die  ...  and  speak  no  word !  She  beat 
on  the  hard,  unyielding  door,  then  seized  a 
wooden  stool,  and  struck— struck  in  the  mad- 
ness of  a  woman's  fear  and  love.  A  splintering 
crash— a  fiercer  blow— the  frail  thing  tottered 
on  its  hinge  and  fell— and  she  sprang  across  the 
shattered  barrier. 

'  'Tis  I — Le  Corbeau !  .  .  .  The  deed  is  mine  I 
.  .  .  /killed  him-//" 

"Adrienne!"  breathed  Leon,  in  a  gasping 
whisper.  "  Adrienne ! " 

For  ten  short,  startled  breaths  soldier  and 
churchman  stared  in  blank  astonishment ;  then 
rose  a  tumult  among  the  outraged  priests, 
which  Castine  vainly  sought  to  quell. 

"  The  woman ! "  they  shrieked.  "  A  woman 
in  the  cloister!  The  murderess!  The  courte- 
san !  Le  Corbeau !  Le  Corbeau,  the  wanton ! " 
And  they  surged  about  her  with  threatening 
hands  and  angry  execrations. 

"Peace!  Peace!"  cried  Castine,  stretching 
out  his  staff;  and  when  the  uproar  lulled,  he 
turned  to  the  officer  and  demanded  sharply: 

"  Seize  that  woman ! " 
293 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


The  soldiers  and  priests  advanced.  Leon 
took  one  forward  step  to  interpose,  but  the 
troopers  hung  upon  his  arms.  He  shook  them 
off  as  a  stag  might  toss  a  hound,  and  stood  at  Le 
Corbeau's  side,  then  turned  and  stretched  out 
his  long,  lean  arm. 

"  Not  as  a  priest,  but  as  a  son  of  France  I 
warn  you,  .  .  .  touch  her  not ! " 

The  priests  fell  back ;  the  officer  looked — and 
smiled — and  gave  no  order  to  his  men.  Castine 
pushed  forward  through  the  press,  and  con- 
fronted Leon  angrily. 

"Stand  aside!" 

"No!" 

"  I  command  you ! " 

"  I  will  not  obey." 

"  The  creature  is  a  murderess ! " 

"I  care  not!" 

"A  harlot!" 

"She  is  a  woman.  .  .  .  Listen,  father,  .  .  . 
and  you,  brothers  of  The  House  of  Peace.  .  .  . 
You  condemn  her,  knowing  not  her  crime,  its 
nature,  or  its  cause.  A  woman,  defenceless 
and  alone.  .  .  .  Let  her  go  in  peace,  and  on  me 

may  your  judgment  fall." 

294 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Again  a  murmur  rose  from  priests  and  men- 
at-arms;  from  the  priests  low,  muttering,  and 
long;  but  the  troopers  straightened  their  har- 
nessed backs  and  raised  their  sabre  hilts  in 
brotherly  salute. 

"  Hold ! "  cried  Castine  fiercely.  "  We  have 
suffered  you  to  speak  in  defiance  of  Church  and 
king.  We  have  borne  your  insolence — your 
sullen  disobedience.  We  will  suffer  it  no  long- 
er. The  woman  you  shield  is  a  murderess  by 
her  own  confession.  She  has  crept  like  a  thief 
into  our  sanctuary — her  very  presence  a  defile- 
ment and  a  curse ! " 

Le  Corbeau  crouched  at  Leon's  side,  her  face 
half  buried  in  his  flowing  robe.  At  Castine's 
words  she  turned  to  him  in  trembling  appeal. 

"  Father,  I  came  for  him— for  Leon — in  tears 
and  repentance  for  the  wrong  I  did  him." 

The  muttering  priests  drew  nearer,  inch  by 
inch,  with  snarling  menace  and  eager  hands, 
but  Leon  swept  their  circle  with  his  arm. 

"Stand  back!" 

"  Fool ! "  the  Jesuit  stormed.  "  Fool,  are  you 
mad?  Are  you  blind  to  her  wickedness  and 

shameless  vice  ?    She— the  wretch— the  outcast ! 

295 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 


Look!  Look  upon  her  ...  in  all  her  loath- 
some degradation  —  she  —  the  foul  thing  that 
cowers  at  your  feet!  And  you  defend  her? 
Heaven  help  you!  What  can  you  say  in  her 
defence  ? " 

The, tall  Samaritan  once  more  stretched  his 
arm,  and  the  roll  of  his  deep  voice  drowned  his 
brothers'  murmuring: 

"  What  saith  your  Master,  which  is  God  in 
Heaven?  .  .  .  'With  what  judgment  ye  judge ', 
ye  shall  be  judged:  and  with  what  measure  ye 
mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again!  " 

The  priests  shrank  back  in  awe,  the  Jesuit 
found  no  word  to  answer,  and  the  troopers  bit 
their  lips  in  silence,  cursed  their  rigid  discipline, 
and  longed  to  cheer. 


296 


CHAPTER    XXII 

THERE  were  sudden  sounds  of  commotion  at 
the  garden  gate;  Sebastian  entered  hurriedly, 
and  close  upon  his  heels  came  the  lean  Phi- 
lippe, still  panting  from  his  run.  The  abbe* 
raised  his  hand : 

"  His  Eminence,  the  Cardinal!" 

From  his  carriage  stepped  that  calm  old  min- 
ister, and  priests  and  troopers  bent  their  knees 
as  the  crimson  cassock  passed.  Beneath  a  red 
calotte  gleamed  his  silvered  hair,  which  framed 
a  face  thin,  placid,  seamed  with  lines  of  earthly 
care  and  kindliness.  He  leaned  on  a  proffered 
arm,  approached  the  Jesuit,  and  spoke : 

"Castine,  .  .  .  your  inquiry  may  cease. 
Our  son  is  guiltless  of  the  charge  preferred." 

The  Jesuit  frowned,  and  pointed  a  slim,  accus- 
ing finger  at  the  woman  who  crouched  at  L£ 
on's  feet.  "  We  have  heard  it  from  the  wan- 
ton's lips,  not  his ;  the  wanton  whom  he  shielded 

and  still  shields." 

297 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Abbe  Sebastian  looked  down  reproachfully, 
looked  from  the  tear-stained  face  to  the  shat- 
tered door,  and  understood. 

"  Father,"  she  cried,  "  I  beg  forgiveness  for 
my  broken  pledge,  but  I  only  sought  to  save 
him — to  save  Leon,  father — whom  you  love. 
The  soldiers  would  have  taken  him  away.  He 
would  bear  my  guilt,  and  there  were  none  to 
save  him!"  She  crept  toward  the  abbe  and 
knelt  to  him.  "  Father — you  will  forgive " 

"No!"  the  Jesuit  cried,  and  turned  to  the 
cardinal  in  a  burst  of  religious  zeal.  Tis  not 
enough  that  she  should  strip  the  mantle  from  a 
mindless  priest,  exposing  him  to  shame  and 
ridicule,  but  now  she  pollutes  our  robes  of 
purity  with  the  vileness  of  her  tainted  touch ! 
A  harlot  in  a  cloister !  A  mockery !  A  curse ! " 

His  fierceness  fired  the  rage  of  the  restless 
priests,  and  again  a  vengeful  storm  of  maledic- 
tion poured  upon  the  outcast's  head. 

Le  Corbeau  shrank  in  terror  beneath  the 
harsh,  unpitying  castigation  of  their  murmuring 
tongues,  but  the  cardinal  took  her  hand  and 
raised  her  gently. 

"  Peace,  Castine ! "  he  said,  in  calm  reproof. 
298 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

'  The  sinner  has  repented.  As  Leon  shielded, 
so  will  I  also  shield.  Peace ! " 

He  turned  to  the  angry  priests,  whose  voices 
died  away  at  the  sound  of  his  gentle  speech. 

"  My  children,  I  have  heard  the  story  of  your 
brother's  sin,  and  my  heart  is  sorely  grieved; 
but  you  who  weep  with  me  because  of  him, 
must  strive  to  remember  that  a  priest  of  God  is 
one  of  God's  humanity.  Were  he  tempted  not, 
where  then  would  be  his  triumph  over  evil — the 
glory  of  his  life  of  purity  ?  What  preach  ye  to 
the  world  ?  Mercy  and  forgiveness.  Turn  not, 
then,  from  him  whose  feet  have  wandered  where 
yours,  in  mortal  weakness,  may  also  tread." 

The  brothers  bowed  their  heads  to  the  just 
rebuke,  and  the  cardinal  released  Le  Corbeau's 
hand  and  turned  to  Leon. 

"  My  son,  if  you  would  once  more  enter  The 
House  of  Peace,  and  can  kneel  in  penitence  be- 
fore its  altar,  I  pledge  myself  to  intercede  for 
the  absolution  of  your  sin." 

The  Samaritan  inclined  his  head,  but  made 
no  answer,  and  the  aged  minister  spoke  on,  in 
mellow,  even  tones: 

"  Your  sphere  of  usefulness  amongst  us  ... 
299 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


you  have  forfeited ;  and  henceforth  your  field  of 
labor  lies  across  the  sea  in  a  new  land,  where 
your  harvest  may  be  gathered  and  given  up  to 
God.  Turn  then  from  her  who  has  led  your 
heart  astray — turn,  my  son,  forever  .  .  .  and 
forget." 

Leon's  gaze  passed  slowly  from  the  speaker's 
face,  rested  on  a  woman's  streaming  eyes,  and 
lingered  tenderly. 

"  If  this  you  may  not  do,"  said  the  cardinal, 
in  a  sterner  tone,  "  then  go  you  forth  into  the 
world  with  her  whose  love  you  buy  with  the 
coin  of  folly.  Go  forth  without  our  blessing — 
without  the  sanction  of  Holy  Church — and  an- 
swer to  your  heavenly  Father  for  the  trust  your 
soul  forsakes.  Tempted,  you  fell.  Forgiven,  I 
offer  you  return  into  your  brotherhood." 

Leon  faced  the  cardinal:  "And  she— 

"  Must  fight  her  battle  as  you  fight  yours,  .  .  . 
apart  from  you  forever." 

Le  Corbeau  clutched  Sebastian's  arm,  and  a 
stifled  sob  escaped  her  lips. 

"Forever?    Alone- 

The  Samaritan  raised  his  head.  "  Your  Emi- 
nence  

300 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

The  cardinal  interrupted  with  a  swift,  impe- 
rious gesture.  "  Her  hands  are  stained  with  a 
fellow-creature's  blood ;  for  this  she  must  answer 
to  the  king,  and  sue  for  pardon." 

"  Pardon ! "  Le  Corbeau  cried,  as  the  woman  in 
her  blood  burst  forth  in  fierce  rebellion.  "  Par- 
don! And  what  then?  ...  To  be  cast  on  the 
world  and  look  for  mercy  there ! "  She  laughed 
hysterically.  "  Mercy  for  the  woman  who  has 
fallen!  Mercy  ...  in  the  human  wolves  that 
snarl  and  tear  her  flesh !  Mercy  .  .  .  when  you 
crush  her  heart  on  earth  and  shut  her  soul 
from  heaven!  What  hope  of  pardon?  What 
hope  ? " 

The  cardinal  raised  his  hand,  and  once  more 
hushed  the  murmuring  of  the  priests. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  your  sins  are  deep,  but 
the  Father  is  merciful  and  just.  Knock,  .  .  . 
and  the  gate  will  be  opened." 

"Aye,  knock!"  she  flung  back  bitterly. 
"  Knock  till  my  hands  shall  bleed— and  call  in 
vain !  Your  heaven  is  deaf— its  door  is  barred, 
.  .  .  and  the  outcast's  cry  is  drowned  in  the 
prayers  of  those  who  pity  not.  Ask  pity— par- 
don, if  you  will— and  wait  for  pardon,  .  .  .  wait  I 

301 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

There  is  pardon  for  the  man — pardon — always 
pardon!  For  woman  .  .  .  none!"  She 
wheeled  upon  the  priests,  in  a  storm  which  rent 
her  with  its  passionate  despair.  "  The  woman 
is  a  serpent !  Crush  her  with  your  heel,  .  .  . 
and  cry  to  God  the  glory  of  your  deed ! " 

The  storm  was  passed;  she  sank  at  Sebas- 
tian's feet,  and  sobbed,  in  broken-hearted  mis- 
ery: 

"  Father — help  me — help  me !  Where  can  I 
turn?  What  hand  to  save  me  now ?" 

"MINE!" 

Leon  strode  to  the  stricken  woman's  side,  and 
would  have  lifted  her,  but  the  cardinal  inter- 
posed. 

"  Heed  ere  you  choose,"  he  warned.  "  Your 
step,  once  taken,  is  immutable.  For  you  there 
is  no  return." 

"  I  ask  for  none,"  the  priest  replied,  and  a 
flush  swept  over  his  pallid  cheek.    "  Withdraw 
your    pardon  —  send    me    forth    unblessed  — 
stripped    of  my   robe  —  your  curse  upon  my 
name " 

"  No,  Leon — not  for  me ! "  Le  Corbeau  cried. 

"  Not— not  for  me ! " 

302 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

But  Leon  paid  no  heed;  he  faced  his  judge, 
in  courage  born  of  justice  and  of  love. 

"  Shall  I  go  free,"  he  asked,  "  my  path  made 
smooth,  while  hers  is  choked  with  thorns?  To 
shirk  the  lash  which  falls  on  her  alone?  To 
bury  my  dishonour  in  an  unknown  land,  and 
pray  for  hope  where  manhood's  spirit  failed? 
To  stain  your  altar  with  a  coward's  lie?  No, 
Monseigneur!  And  no,  again!  You  offer  me 
the  bread  of  your  forgiveness,  .  .  .  but  I  may 
not  eat ! " 

Once  more  he  would  have  raised  the  weeping 
woman  from  the  earth,  but  again  the  cardinal 
interposed  and  spoke  in  unruffled  calm : 

"  Think — think,  my  son,  of  the  life  you  offer 
her.  To  go  forth  hand  in  hand — a  beggar  and 
a  criminal — to  battle  with  the  world.  Live  .  .  . 
when  the  memory  of  the  past  shall  dog  your 
every  step — your  hidden  sin  a  pillow  for  your 
sleep.  Live  .  .  .  till  the  passion  of  your  selfish 
love  burns  low  and  dies.  Live  without  hope — 
without  the  God  your  stubborn  heart  forsakes. 
This  you  offer  her.  What  more  ? " 

"An  arm  to  shield  her  helplessness  .  .  .while 

life  shall  last." 

303 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


"And  then?" 

The  cardinal's  tone  was  coldly  calm,  but  be- 
hind it  lay  the  power  and  wisdom  of  unfaltering 
faith.  Before  him  stood  a  man  whose  honour  he 
could  trust ;  a  man  who  would  give  his  name— 
his  blood — for  a  woman  marked  with  the  brand 
of  Cain.  But  the  Church  asked  more.  What 
profited  the  torture  of  the  cross  if  naught  was 
gained  thereby  save  suffering?  The  priest 
might  give  a  few  short  years  of  love  and  tender- 
ness— and  then — what  then  ? 

Leon  raised  his  head  to  speak,  but  his  tongue 
was  mute,  for  the  gulf  beyond  grew  dark  with 
shadows,  and  he  shivered  at  the  plunge.  The 
cardinal  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
Good  Samaritan,  and  spoke  as  a  father  speaks, 
in  duty  and  in  love : 

"  Think  you  my  sixty  years  are  filled  with  un- 
wisdom and  unkindliness  — •  that  my  heart  is 
warped  and  pitiless  to  human  grief?  Ah,  no, 
my  son;  I've  walked  on  trouble's  road  .  .  .  and 
know.  Go  seek  God's  mercy  in  your  field  of 
toil.  Subdue  your  passion.  Trample  on  its 
fires.  Forget  the  woman.  Shut  her  from  your 
heart.  Go !  Leave  her  fate  to  me ! " 

304 


A   BROKEN    ROSARY 

Leon  took  a  backward  step,  and  stared,  in 
reeling  unbelief,  fearing,  wondering. 

"You— you-  '  he  gasped.  "And  what  can 
you  offer  her?" 

"  A  shield  your  feeble  arm  can  never  give  "— 
the  cardinal  stepped  to  Le  Corbeau's  side  and 
flung  his  mantle  across  her  shrinking  form— 
"  the  purple  of  the  Church.  You  seek  to  shield 
her  body.  .  .  .  I,  her  soul!" 

Still  Leon  stared— stared  stupidly;  his  brain 
was  stunned,  and  his  heart  pumped  vainly  to 
supply  its  need.  He  raised  his  head  to  speak, 
and  slowly  it  drooped  again  upon  his  breast. 
Le  Corbeau  rose  to  go  to  him,  but  the  cardinal 
restrained  her  with  a  warning  hand.  Philippe 
stepped  forward,  in  tender  sympathy,  but  his 
way  was  barred  by  the  Jesuit's  oaken  staff. 

A  painful  stillness  fell,  and  even  the  sparrows' 
twittering  was  hushed  in  the  ivy  vine.  Once 
more  the  priest  stood  silently,  while  battle  raged 
between  his  soul  and  heart.  He  saw  her 
crouched  and  trembling  beside  the  grey  old 
man  who  had  been  a  father  and  a  friend  through 
years  of  grief  and  toil,  and  his  very  blood  cried 
out  in  pity  of  the  pain  his  choice  must  bring. 
20  305 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

He  saw  the  cloister  with  its  rows  of  gloomy  cells 
and  the  breeze-swept  garden  drowsing  in  the 
sun.  He  heard  a  droning,  whispered  song  that 
dinned  forever  in  his  ears :  "  Will  you  always 
live  so,  Leon — lonely  and  sad  at  heart,  .  .  .  with 
none  to  love  you  with  a  great  and  lasting  love? 
.  .  .  Will  you  pass  the  cup  untasted,  then ;  the 
cup  that  brims  with  the  bubbling  joy  of  love?" 
His  head  was  spinning,  and  the  world  swam 
madly  round  and  laughed  and  laughed.  He 
dimly  saw  his  brother  priests,  with  faces  set  and 
drawn,  waiting,  waiting  for  his  heart  to  die,  .  .  . 
while  the  silence  piled  upon  him  till  his  breath 
grew  hot  and  panting  as  it  came.  He  faltered, 
and  turned  at  last  to  the  abbe  in  mute  appeal. 

Sebastian  spread  his  weak  old  arms,  and 
called  from  the  depths  of  a  father's  yearning 
heart: 

"  My  son,  my  son,  come  back  to  the  arms  I 
hold  to  you  .  .  .  and  a  love  which  is  yours  for- 
ever. Claudien,  .  .  .  come  home,  .  .  .  come 
home!" 

The  priests  and  soldiers  bowed  their  heads. 

"  Leon,  .  .  .  my  Leon ! "  Le  Corbeau  sobbed, 

and  sank  upon  her  knees. 

306 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"Go  forth  with  her,"  the  Jesuit  cried,  "or 
return  once  more  into  The  House  of  Peace." 
He  pointed  his  claw-like  finger  at  the  Poppy 
Flower,  as  Sebastian  lifted  a  crucifix.  "  There 
kneels  the  world.  .  .  .  Above  you  bends  the 
cross  of  God ! " 

"Choose!" 

The  ivory  image  seemed  to  stoop  and  stretch 
its  nail-pierced  hands,  and  the  kneeling  woman 
raised  her  rounded  arms. 

"  My  love,  ...  my  love,"  she  moaned,  and  the 
rest  was  told  in  her  haunting  eyes. 

For  a  moment  longer  Leon  stood,  white, 
silent,  irresolute.  He  looked  on  Adrienne — 
she  who  had  once  besought  him  to  save  her 
soul.  How  could  he  save  it  now,  and  spare  her 
the  pang  of  parting?  Did  he  not  love  her  still 
.  .  .  with  a  wondrous,  lasting  love,  far  deeper 
than  his  human  selfishness?  A  love  which 
must  buy  her  soul's  salvation,  even  if  his  heart 
were  crucified.  Only  in  parting  could  such  a 
price  be  paid.  He  stepped  toward  the  goal  of 
his  earthly  hope,  and  laid  his  hand  in  tender- 
ness on  the  woman's  head. 

"God  .  .  .  keep  you,  .  .  .  Adrienne!"  he 
307 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

murmured  brokenly — turned — sank  down  at 
Sebastian's  feet,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the 
ivory  crucifix  which  shook  in  the  abbe's 
hands. 

Around  him  his  brothers  knelt  in  a  word- 
less prayer.  Le  Corbeau  staggered  to  her 
feet,  but  was  caught  on  the  cardinal's  support- 
ing arm. 

"  Father,"  she  moaned, "  I  have  tried  so  hard — 
and  I  loved  him — loved  him " 

"  Be  brave,  my  child,"  the  cardinal  comforted. 
"  Leon  is  suffering  for  your  sake.  Be  brave  for 
his." 

Castine  stepped  to  the  waiting  officer. 
"  Go,"  he  said ;  "  the  cardinal  and  she  will  fol- 
low." 

The  lieutenant  raised  his  hand;  his  men-at- 
arms,  with  a  lingering  glance  at  the  robe  which 
hid  a  soldier  in  the  priest,  turned  and  filed,  with 
a  soundless  tread,  through  the  cloister's  open 
gate.  The  Jesuit  made  a  sign,  and  the  priests 
rose  silently  and  followed  him.  The  line  of 
sombre  cassocks  passed  slowly  along  the  por- 
tico, mounted  the  stairs  to  the  gallery  above, 

and  crawled  into  the  cloister's  shadowy  hold. 

308 


"Choose!" 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

Slowly,  slowly  that  still  procession  moved,  and 
Leon  and  his  abbe  followed. 

"  Father,"  Le  Corbeau  cried,  as  she  watched 
one  priest  alone,  "father,  he  goes  without  a 
word  of  love — without  a  look.  He  gives  me  his 
hard,  cold  blessing  .  .  .  and  forgets ! " 

"No,  no,  my  child,"  said  the  cardinal  ten- 
derly ;  "  Leon  will  not  forget." 

"  But  I  love  him,  father — love  him — "  And 
she  would  have  run  to  him,  but  the  cardinal  re- 
strained her  by  gentle  touch  and  word. 

"  His  sacrifice  is  made  for  you  alone,  and  is 
greater  than  your  love  can  understand." 

"  He  loves  his  cross— not  me,"  she  answered 
bitterly.  "  His  God  who  is  stern  and  merciless 
to  woman's  sin.  His  God  who  thrusts  me  back 
— his — his — not  mine ! " 

The  cardinal  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in 
both  his  own. 

"Repentance,"  he  said,  "brings  its  fruit  to 
ripen  in  the  sunshine  of  our  own  good  works. 
Heaven  bends  in  pity  to  its  children  .  .  .  and 
will  heed.     Be  brave,  my  child;  this  grief  of 
yours  will  also  pass  away." 
A  trumpet  called  faintly  beyond  the  garden  wall. 
309 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

"  Come,"  said  the  cardinal,  and  sought  to  lead 
her  toward  the  gate,  "  come,  we  will  seek  the 
king." 

But  she  held  back  pleadingly,  and  sobbed: 
"  A  moment,  father — only  a  moment  more — till 
he  passes  from  me  ...  and  is  gone.  ...  I  will 
try  then,  father,  to  love  your  God ;  .  .  .  but  it's 
hard  .  .  .  when  my  heart  is  dying,  .  .  .  when 
he  turns  without  a  look.  .  .  .  See !  ...  he  for- 
gets— forgets ' ' 

The  last  of  the  silent  line  had  disappeared, 
and  Leon  and  his  abbe  stood  upon  the  gallery, 
alone.  Le  Corbeau  slipped  upon  her  knees  and 
stretched  out  her  hungering  arms : 

"  Leon — my  love — forgive ! " 

The  white-haired  cardinal  turned  his  back, 
and  the  breast  beneath  the  crimson  vestment 
rose  and  fell  to  a  quickened  pulse,  for  he,  too, 
was  but  a  man. 

Leon  turned  at  the  sound  of  her  sobbing  call, 
leaned  low  across  the  railing,  and  waved  his 
hand  in  silent  pledge  of  a  memory  that  should 
not  die.  He  had  given  all — all  but  a  memory — 
and  this  his  heart  would  keep. 

The  abbe  placed  an  encircling  arm  about  the 
310 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 


shoulder  of  his  son,  and  together  the  two  were 
lost  in  the  cloister's  gloom. 

The  woman  rose  and  sought  the  cardinal's 
waiting  hand,  and  passed,  with  a  drooping  head, 
from  the  garden  of  The  House  of  Peace. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

IN  the  convent's  chapel,  as  the  voices  of  the 
nuns  arose  in  a  sad,  sweet  chant,  low,  colorless, 
and  pure,  a  tearful  woman  knelt  apart.  A  sun- 
beam, filtering  through  a  crimson  pane,  stole 
down  to  her  trembling  veil,  and  played  like  a 
blood-red  tongue  of  flame  on  her  heaving,  white- 
clad  breast. 

She  lifted  her  haunting  eyes  to  the  Mother 
and  the  Child,  while  her  ringers  clung  in  jealous 
tenderness  to  the  rosary  she  loved.  .  .  .  That 
rosary  whose  string  her  fierce,  exultant  hands 
had  snapped — whose  beads  were  scattered,  .  .  . 
but  were  found  again. 

Who,  who  shall  judge  if  it  only  told,  as  yet, 
two  human  prayers:  "Would  the  Holy  Mother 
listen  and  forgive?  .  .  .  Would  Leon's  heart 
forget?" 

A  ship,  far  out  at  sea,  heeled  gently  to  the 
breathing  of  a  lazy  wind,  and  a  tall  priest  stood 

312 


A    BROKEN    ROSARY 

on  her  after-deck  and  watched  the  receding 
shore— that  dim,  blue  line  that  sank  and  sank, 
and  was  lost  in  a  mist  of  tears. 

And  still  he  stood  till  the  lingering  day  was 
old,  and  the  sun,  like  a  lonely,  watch-worn 
monk,  crept  down  to  his  cell  and  slept. 

In  the  murmur  of  lapping  waves  the  priest 
could  hear  a  crooning,  whispered  song,  and  a 
woman's  sob  in  the  note  of  a  ghostly  gull  poised, 
screaming,  above  the  mast. 

And  still  he  watched.  The  stars  came  out— 
a  million  candles  squandered  in  the  ritual  of 
night— and  the  moon  mist  lay,  like  a  cassock's 
fold,  on  the  breast  of  the  slumbering  sea* 

He  watched,  and  silence  fell— unbroken- 
awesome— deep.  The  toiling  vessel  rose  and 
sank  to  the  swoop  of  an  oily  swell,  and  the 
phantom  of  the  Poppy  Flower  swam  on  in  its 
bubbly  wake. 


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"  Senator  North,''  "  Patience  Sparhawk,"  etc. 

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"  Brown's  Retreat,"  etc. 

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"Idols,  "etc. 

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SUDERMANN.     (A  translation,  from  the  German,  by  Beatrice  Marshall,  of 
"Der  Katzensteg"). 

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of  "  One  Queen  Triumphant,"  "  The  Wood  of  the  Brambles,"  etc. 
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15.  THE  CATHOLIC  :  A  Novel.     Anonymous. 

16.  JOHN  BURNET  OF  BARNES.     By  JOHN  BUCHAN,  author  of  "  A  Lot 

Lady  of  Old  Years,"  "Grey  Weather,"  etc. 

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semblers,"  etc. 

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author  of  "  Charms  :  a  Novel,"  etc. 

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ao.     IDOLS.     By  WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE,  author  of  "  Derelicts."  "A  Study  in 
Shadows,"  "The  White  Dove,"  etc. 

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UC  SOUT>eM  fCGOtM.  LaWRY  F«OUTY 


A     000129004    8 


